Carnage Under the Moonlight: The 93rd Hunger Games
by 24-ish Authors
Summary: "Everyone is a moon, and has a dark side which he never shows to anybody." Welcome to the 93rd Hunger Games, a 24 author collaboration.
1. Prologue I

**Carnage Under the Moonlight  
The 93rd Hunger Games**

**Prologue**

**Brae Harrison, District 11 Citizen  
****1 week before Reapings.**

It's 4pm on a Friday at the local Orchard. Spud and I love Fridays as we're the fastest workers around. Once you get your quota of oranges picked you get the night off. I decide to take a rest on the rung of my ladder, with only a few more to go.

Spud is climbing the nearest branch to try to catch up so we can go home. "Spud!" I yell. "Stay on the ladder". Joker that he is, he starts doing the chicken dance on a branch 35 feet off the ground. I roll my eyes, he stops and goes to pick an orange a few feet over his head.

Just as the wind picks up, the orange he was reaching is a few inches out of his reach. One second he's on his tip toes, the next second he's grasping at any branch he can reach. "NOOO!" is all I can manage to scream as I watch the apple of my eye fall to his death.

Next thing I know, I'm reclining in my rocker, my nightgown drenched in my own sweat. Even 45 years later, I still have that dream weekly. I lost the love of my life at the ripe young age of 38. Call me crazy but I'd never recover from that event. Call me psychotic but the only thing that helps me forget it for a spell is watching The Hunger Games.

District 11 is hopeless, I'm always pessimistic they will ever field a decent tribute. The last victor was a complete fluke and I let her know it any time I see her around. She's getting a bit too big for her britches.

I have nearly no hope for this year's crop of munchkins but I can't help but snoop on the prospects. One girl that reminds me of myself, a rather tall and scrawny young whippersnapper. She has that same look as her nanna which tells me she must be a Clementine. I figure she works more hours than Spud and I did back in the day so she must be tough. I worry about her being a loner though, since that doesn't seem to work in the games.

The only other cubs I can see surviving the bloodbath are these two that play catch in the abandoned lot by my place. The one who's friend calls him Bash has a strong arm. He broke my window last year with a poorly aimed football. I had a good yellin' at him, but somehow he talked me out of making him pay. He's got strength and likability I suppose but those careers always have both of those in spades.

Suppose I won't get my hopes up. The games are still a stretch away and this old lady can't take any bit more heart break.

* * *

**Felicity Spool, District Eight Citizen**

I don't like the rain.

Mother always says that the rain is good, that it's what allows us to keep growing the small pots of flowers that we keep up in the apartment. But I don't like it - it makes it hard to walk to the factories and the older ladies that I work with say that the moisture in the air clogs up the machine. There's always more accidents in the spring.

But I know that the real reason is that the Hunger Games are coming closer every week. Closer and closer it comes, with every passing minute. Sometimes I lie in bed at night, thinking of all of the seconds that are passing by until I might get reaped.

Mother doesn't know that I'm terrified of going to the Games. But I am, just like every other girl in my class. Before we head off to the factories our families are employed at, we trade stories about what we've heard the arena might be this year. Some say it'll be a horse ranch, others say a massive volcano, and some hope that it's just like District Eight - so if one of us goes, we'll feel safer there.

Mother says that I'd never get chosen for the Hunger Games, and I'm still only twelve. I'm not supposed to be the one to go to the Games, I only have four slips this year. But I still have to be careful.

Mother doesn't know, but I practice throwing our kitchen knives at the back of the apartment building's walls before she gets home. I draw targets in chalk and take turns with the knives, throwing from different distances and angles. I tried to throw one after doing a somersault once, but I cut my hand and had to get bandages so it wouldn't bleed too badly. Sometimes I get scared that Mother will catch me, but she's never home early. I only use the worst knives, anyway - she won't notice any scrapes or new bends in them. She won't notice a thing, as long as I'm careful.

I hope.

Mother says that when the Reapings are over, she'll take me out and we'll go get some fresh bread to eat from the bakery. I like the bakery. It's a pretty place, full of flowers that have vibrant, luscious colours that our dingy flowers at home don't. Maybe it's because they have less soot on them, or maybe it's because the scent of bread in the air invigorates the plants to grow. I don't know, but whenever I ask Mother she says I'm being silly again. According to Mother, I'm silly quite a lot.

I don't like the rain, not at all. I hate puddles, I hate being wet, and I hate what it brings us, year after year. But it's washing away the dirty snow that still lies in the streets. As it cleans our roofs and roads, it brings in the winds of change. It's bringing something new this year, something different.

Mother doesn't know, but I wake up with nightmares every night about drowning.

* * *

**Atalanta Ryder, District Six Escort**

Atalanta knows fair game.

It's the year of the 93rd hunger games, but the reaping still hasn't come, and she is here, oh she is here, torn with impatience. She wants the reaping to start soon, so she can work her way up to being the most famous escort that has ever existed.

Who is she kidding? Every escort must want that. Only weirdos like Gladys Hiro and so on can't appreciate the true motive of being a escort to those ugly, ugly tributes.

It was what you can do with them. Sadly, since the rebellion, she had been desperate. Even with Rike winning the games, no one will promote her to a Career District.

Oh Rike, that little boy who didn't know how to kill someone, but still did it. It was all because of her. She remembers seeing the poor little kid in his room, almost two years ago. In the train most of District Six tributes are either high or crying, but he wasn't. He was just numb and stoic. She remembers him asking her advice.

"How do you think I can win?"

"How do I do to kill someone to without the other person feeling pain?"

"How can a thirteen-year-old win?"

"How do I not die?"

She remembers seeing him and feeling pity for him. He was a few months younger than Tisa Lychee, the youngest victor at the time. He was for sure dead. But for some reason, he got an ally in training. The boy from Twelve. Sadly, that boy died in the bloodbath, but still, Rike found a way to shine through his interviews and got a decent score (Five. It was a Five). It was all thanks to her advice. Even though Rike was the youngest by far, since the next youngest tribute was fifteen, he still found a way to do what he needed to do.

Though, once it got a point where she knew he was going to die. It was only him and the careers, after they had dismembered the girl from twelve. She was sure he was going to die and her opportunity for a better future would be out. _Why_ did the escorts rely on their tributes so much?

But then, an idea came to mind. She remembered Rike telling her he was training with poisons a lot during training.

She gave her brother a call.

"Do you want to cheat…and send him, the thirteen year old we all know who is gonna die…some poisonous frogs? Do you want him to die by his own hands rather than the careers?" was his incredulous reply.

"It isn't like that. You are a gamemaker and you have the power to do anything with it and-"

"No, you know I can't cheat. That boy is going to die tomorrow or the day after that, but he is going to die." And Jorge hung up.

She was crying for once. Why she was so emotional, she didn't know, but she still was. She wanted to tell herself it was all because of the opportunity for a better future, but it wasn't true.

Or at least it wasn't the whole truth.

She was still crying when she saw something she didn't expect. Rike had gotten those frogs, but naturally, in the arena. Like if they had been part of it all along.

Rike then proceeded to put them bellow the sleeping bags of the careers. Atalanta held her breath. _BOOM_, the six cannons sounded. They were all dead. Districts One, Two, and Four annihilated in one move.

Later her brother told her the head gamemaker like the idea, to spice things a bit. And even though later she met the president and they told her that she had to stay in Six for "reasons", and even though she went back to her greedy, manipulative, stoic self, she still remembered it. The night where she first cried.

She couldn´t possibly believe it was for a simple trbute. No, it was for her opportunity to go higher in the district range, that´s for sure. She tells herself that, even though when she sees Rike, she is always about to cry. She tells herself that, even if she is the only person he vents to. She tells herself that, but he is the only person she truly smiles with.

Maybe she's not as stone-cold as she thinks.

But she has to be.

* * *

**Prometheus Lancaster, ****Stylist**

It's amazing how much one person can screw things up for everyone else around them. We never _used _to have to watch our backs. Stylists were there to make the pre-Games festivities interesting, keep things bright and colorful and fresh. Once our part was done, we could sit back and watch the Games in peace, enjoying the fruits of our labor if our tribute did well with the Capitol sponsors, and if not … well, there was always next year.

Cinna ruined all of that for us. Oh, he never thought about it that way, I'm sure. He thought he was making a difference. He thought he was going to change things. And in a rather twisted way, he was right. The Mockingjay rebellion _did _change things.

It made them worse.

It would have been one thing if it just made things worse for the districts. They're the ones who rebelled, after all. So when District Thirteen got bombed into oblivion – really, this time – I wasn't exactly shedding any tears. It took District Twelve a while to get back on what was left of its feet, and there are still bombed-out sections of several other districts. But at least in the Capitol, we can tell ourselves that they just got what was coming to them.

Our new president, however, apparently isn't content with just frightening the hell out of the districts. Sure, everyone used to tiptoe around President Snow, but at least he usually left people like me alone. We were frivolous, silly, inconsequential. But Cinna just _had _to go and show everyone how dangerous it was to dismiss us.

Now instead of just having fun, we have to be _careful. _We have to be interesting while still being certain not to make a statement, not to go too far, not to suggest that our tribute is too important, too … _noticeable_. We have to say something while being careful not to scream it, engage the audience without making them think too hard, dazzle them while being careful not to captivate them.

It's a balance – a balance that few of us are capable of striking. There was always a lot of turnover as older stylists were replaced with younger, more attractive faces with fresher ideas. Now it's even worse. Anyone whose designs even hint at a whiff of a trace of something that might be perceived as rebellious is gone the next year – either voluntarily or otherwise. The president simply won't tolerate anything that might be considered a challenge to her authority.

I've thought about leaving, of course. Most of us have. It's frustrating. It's often frightening. It used to be _fun_. It used to make me happy. Now…

I should leave.

But I don't know what else I would do.


	2. Prologue II

**Carnage Under the Moonlight  
****The 93rd Hunger Games**

**Prologue II**

**Coventina Cress  
****District Four Victor, 92nd Hunger Games**

"_In books, often the bad guys have a story too, and sometimes it is just as tragic as the hero's."  
__-Jennifer Megan Varnadore_

The cameras love me, they say. I should be proud of all I had done, they say. Anyone else would done the same thing, they say.

They speak as though I am fighting an eternal conflict with myself, but they couldn't be further from the truth. I was born for this, molded by my trainer and brought to life by my past. I may have murdered others, but it was nothing that will keep me up at night. If it wasn't me that killed them, it would have been someone else, another person's hand raised in victory, and I was not about to let that happen. I may have gone about things in an _unconventional_ way, but I refused to think of myself as come kind of villain. No, I am more of a necessary evil. They all just want someone to blame for the death of their favorite tribute, their family member, forgetting that it could have easily been them if they had only had the balls to volunteer. Instead, they will whine and complain about my actions and cry that I didn't have to go in, as it wasn't my name that was called. Or, hell, that the boy that also volunteered with me should have been given the chance to win.

Sharing the spotlight was never my style.

My district spits at me as I walk by, seeing only the death of that boy at the hands of the pair from Seven, revenge for him knocking out a member of their alliance and leaving her to die at the hands of someone else. I understood their need to get even; hell, I was so focused on finding the boy from Six that I slaughtered his District Partner to get back at him for daring to defy me, so their needs outweighed my deflated sense of district pride.

My district doesn't deserve my pride, if I am to be honest with myself.

I wasn't always so jaded; so fake. Mother was taken from me before I had the chance to form a complete memory of her in my mind and father, he moved on a little too quickly for my taste. His new wife came with a suitcase full of entitlement from being the daughter of the former Mayor and a son, Fjord. The honeymoon period was over when I told the truth about her precious boy, but by then, my father was under her spell. So when I fought back after the third time and broke his arm in three places and left a scar on his cheek with my baby teeth, my father abandoned me on the steps of Knox Academy, ensuring my fate. Funnily enough, Fjord was the only one to visit me before I was swept off to the train, if only to try one more time before I was nothing more than a memory to him.

Peacekeepers drug him away as his blood left a trail in the Justice Center.

Part of me was always a monster, but it wasn't of my own design. Darren Knox saw what lied underneath during my second year of training and groomed me, making me his newest pet project. He told me to hide my brutality, my disgust with the world and under him, I became quite the actress. Everything was a part of the act; my giggle, my hand-picked boyfriend (a rather bullish and stupid boy by the name of Augustus Avalon), my penchant for becoming fast friends with the people around me, and it was all chosen and molded by Knox.

If he couldn't make his daughter a Victor, I was the next best thing.

From my spot on the stage, I can see her glaring daggers at me, but I just smirk in defiance. She will never know what her father and I have crafted, about the drunken nights we spent bringing this character to life. How angry he was at me for doing what I did with that boy from District Two as we frozen in the cave and how I pictured his face as I slit that boys neck. How warm his blood was on body for just a moment, before almost freezing to my skin.

The cameras loved me from that point on, they say. I should be proud to be alive, they say. The people turned on me at that moment I let Coburn Morrisey die, I say.

* * *

**Rike Glasser  
****District Six Victor, 91st Hunger Games**

Rike was happy.

He had somewhere to go now, apart from his house. The house he didn't like because it was still empty and had been like that for a long time.

It didn't matter what happened, even if he got a girlfriend or if he invited some "people" over. It stayed empty and will most likely be like that for a long time.

But now, he had somewhere to go. A mission to fulfill.

And so, he went to the orphanage of District Six. The place where he had come from before all the murder and chaos.

He didn't want to say that he liked being there, cause he didn't cause it brought him bad memory he didn't want to rely on, but he was still there. Waiting for someone.

And that someone came.

"Hi." Said Melinda. She had brown eyes and a black raven hair. She looked like a scared crow most of the time, but now she didn't for some reason. She seemed calm and sane and serene, unlike anything that had happened before. That's why Rike Glasser felt so comfortable with her. Cause she was predictable and sane, two things he really needed in people and friends.

He didn't want to say anything bad about crazy people, because they had nothing wrong. But he felt like he should avoid becoming crazy. After, that's what happened to most victors of The Hunger Games. They became unhinged.

That's what happened to Muriel after all.

"Melinda, are you sure you want to do this?" Melinda was a small child, but she sure was fierce. She knew when things were wrong and when things went south, so she did everything in her power to stop that. Rike knew that, and he admired that from her. She was still orphaned and maybe that's why she was so fierce, yes, but he admired that despite the odds, she knew how to handle herself pretty well. She was a good kid and Rike liked that.

Rike had never been a good kid. From stealing from people when he was just a small child to survive, to killing six careers with poisons in The Hunger Games, to isolating almost completely from everyone because they felt diseased. Rike didn't want to be like that anymore. He wanted to be alive and do well. To smile and happy. To be able to sleep without seeing Jackob's face shouting and screaming at him, asking him why he didn't save him as he should have.

Rike asked one more time. "Are you sure?"

Melinda looked straight at him. "Yes. Could you stop being insecure and just do it"

"Look, I might not be a good option for-"

"Oh please, please just do it."

Rike then looked at the man in front of him. The person in charge of the orphanage.

"Okay, so what are we doing?" The man asked. Rike then swallowed all guilt and self-pressure. He opened his mouth and after a few seconds he spoke.

"I want to adopt her"

* * *

**Felicity Shaft  
****District Twelve Victor, 90th Hunger Games**

Most of them only care about who I'm not.

I'm not Katniss. I'm not the Mockingjay. I'm not a rebel. I'm not going to get our district bombed into oblivion because I let people see me as a symbol.

Yes, I'm a Victor, but not one who's going to lead a revolt. I'm someone who will play my part, take my winnings, and live the rest of my life in peace. I'll mentor my two tributes, try my hardest to help them win, and try not to take it too hard when they don't. That's my job. That's what they care about.

Can't really blame them for that, I suppose. That's all I would care about, too, if I was in their shoes. I lost my parents in the rebellion – a stupid, pointless rebellion that left us even worse off than when we started. They never had a chance, and they should have known it. Deep down, they probably _did _know it; they just didn't want to _believe _it.

That's what my grandpa says, at least. I was too little to really understand what was going on. My father was killed when District Twelve was bombed. I escaped with my mother and grandfather, but my mother volunteered as a medic for the rebels and got caught in the crossfire. By the time people started being shipped back to District Twelve to rebuild, nearly everyone had lost someone.

All in all, I didn't have it too bad. My grandfather's a good man. He took care of me, and if the Games were good for one thing, it's that they gave me the opportunity to return the favor. He can grow old in peace now, without having to worry about where our next meal is coming from or whether we'll have a bed to sleep in. I can care for him the way he did his best to care for me.

But even he couldn't protect me from the Games.

I was seventeen when I was reaped, but I'd already spent years working in the mines. Used to be, you had to be eighteen to start, but the rebellion left us short on workers. Probably better that it worked out that way – for me, at least. It meant I had a chance in the Games. As it turns out, a chance was all it took.

It wasn't anything spectacular – not as far as the Capitol was concerned. I didn't have any tricks up my sleeve. I didn't rake in the sponsors. I was just willing to fight. I held on just a little longer than the last boy I faced in the finale. Maybe I just got lucky – lucky that _I _was the one who had enough strength left for a killing blow.

Strength, determination, luck … I don't know. Probably all three, in one way or another. I made it. I won. I survived.

Now I just have to not screw it up.

* * *

**Arsenius Huron, 38  
****Master of Ceremonies**

Arsenius scowls as Gamemaker Riesia Plaice rambles on about her ideas for next year's arena. He has an interview to get to, and can't wait around for Plaice's ramblings about how exciting an archipelago of islands will be for the arena. It won't be, anyways. Plaice has always been old-fashioned, nothing like her sister Giselda, a master when it came to designing and building arenas. Riesa just wants to get on the Inner Circle, as Arsenius knows very well.

It's an obvious fact that the two are competing, trying to see who can be the better child. Giselda, who is on the Inner Circle of the Gamemaking team, is in the lead. And for good reason, too. It was her that suggested this year's top-secret arena that had only been told to Augustina, Arsenius, and the rest of the Inner Circle.

This year's games would be gruesomely violent, and Arsenius was happy to say that he would be narrating every step of the way.

"And that sums up my argument that for the 94th Annual Hunger Games, the islands will provide the _perfect_ conditions for the best Games - even better than this year's," Riesia concludes. "I will be happy to take questions."

Arsenius scowls. _She acts as if she knows this year's arena._ Usually Arsenius could keep his calm, and very well, too, but Riesia was the definition of bitch in Arsenius' dictionary. In everything, too, from the fake voice she uses to her ever-changing hair color. Today it's bubblegum pink, tightly curled and matching her lipstick. Of course, there's nothing wrong with using makeup. But when it's matched with Riesia's know-everything attitude and fake voice, it becomes the tipping point.

Giselda raises her hand. She's obviously had a rough morning, her eyes are lined with bags and a bruise is forming on her cheek. "This is all very well, but haven't you forgotten how disastrously the last arena with poisonous animals went? Your poisonous fish could be used...inappropriately. Would you _really_ want another Rike Glasser added to your name, Riesia?" Giselda lingered on the word _inappropriately_, and made sure to emphasize everything that suggested her sister's mistakes.

"We don't have to include the poisonous fish, then. I'll take them out."

Arsenius scowls. _Does Riesia _really _think that her mistakes can be fixed that easily?_ Obviously Giselda has the same thought, as her smirk only grows. It's one of the things about Giselda that makes her even better at her job - her quick wit and ability to detect the smallest of errors, growing them out. Two qualities that Arsenius values, the two most important qualities in a job of political power such as everyone in this room's. Two qualities that he'll be damned if he doesn't have.

Riesia obviously noticed it too, and she opens her mouth to speak again. "Well, we—"

"I'm sorry, but a few of our members have to leave now, Ms. Plaice," cuts in Augustina. "We can continue this tomorrow. However, our Inner Gamemakers and Master of Ceremonies have places to be."

Giselda seems satisfied with this ending. Tucking a strand of knotted hair behind her ear, she picks up her folders. Arsenius, the Head Gamemaker and the other Inners follow her. At the door, they turn left while Arsenius makes a sharp left and soon after he's looking at the daylight outside the Gamemaking Headquarters. A limousine is waiting for him, and after stepping in and shutting the door, Arsenius is ready for the interview.

Once the Training Center comes into sight, Arsenius is greeted by the face of his prep team ("we were told not to do too much, it's just a casual interview, after all") and their efforts into his interview appearance. After five minutes of being unnecessarily pampered, it's time. Arsenius Huron will capture all of Panem once again.

"Hello everyone, and welcome back to the Training Center! With the Hunger Games coming up"—cheers erupted from practically everyone—"We've brought here a favorite victor of many, Coventina Cress!" The blonde walked onstage, smiling at Arsenius. He wasn't sure why, but there was something about her that he felt he could connect to.

Well. He did know.

It was that fire to keep going, that driving goal that nobody's perfect, but you should sure as hell try. It was the learning to conceal everything, to hide yourself under a mask of weakness. And then, when the time was right, strike.

His time wasn't right yet, but when it was he would strike. Oh yes, he would strike hard. Leave a mark.

Arsenuis Huron was his name. And it was a name that would go down in history.

_Let the 93rd Hunger Games begin._


	3. District 11 Reaping

**Danika Clementine, 16  
District Eleven Female  
TheAmazingJAJ**

I live in a world of orchards and fields, the sun warming my skin and the wind playing with my hair on blessedly cool days. If I lived somewhere else, I suppose District Eleven would seem like a paradise. Who _wouldn'_t want to live in this land where the sun always seems to shine and the crops blossom in the dark, rich fields?

I don't know what I would say if I met a person like that, but I know what I would show them. I would show them the workers who toil to keep those crops blooming in the sunlight, the torn skin on our backs from the whips of the overseers, the cruel scars that mark our bodies, one for every time we failed to get away with a lie.

Or, perhaps, I would show them nothing at all. Sometimes, it's simplest to not get involved in matters that aren't my own. It'll spare me a whipping, at the very least.

I'll keep my head down.

I looked back at my home, a mixture of sun-baked bricks and concrete that my parents had scavenged when they were young and brave enough to head out after curfew. It was small, it was tiny, but it managed to fit the four children that they brought into the world. The bricks were stained with the dust that blew throughout Eleven, that coated our clothes as we walked back home. Every home may be yet another copy of the thousands of buildings that workers had constructed to fit us all into this section of Eleven, but this was my house. I knew every crack, every brick, every facet of this house.

"Danika, do you know what I should wear tomorrow?" Korey said, poking his head out past the screen of our window to call to me. One of the few windows that weren't broken on our house, the dust matched the tired brown of our home. "I think I'll wear a blue shirt this time. I asked Mom, but she had to leave for another night shift before she could tell me what to wear." Korey let his lip droop in dismay, as if the hardest thing in his life was deciding what to wear to tomorrow's ceremony.

I shook my head, amused by my foolish little brother. "You haven't even washed that nice blue shirt that you have lying on the floor. Wear the red one this time."

"But the blue one isn't _that_ bad!" protested Korey. "It's only a little dusty around the waist, and the red one is _itchy_! Do you want me to itch all throughout the reapings? What if I break out in welts? What if the cameras see me itching?"

"They won't." I stood up from the warm oak of the bench in front of our home. The bench was a wedding gift to my parents, and they had turned it into a place to sit when you needed to calm down. My siblings only were sent there when they got mad at each other, but I retreated to the bench as a place to embrace some quiet instead of living in the noise of our home. Eleven wasn't known for its nightlife. "Korey, you're going to be standing with Mom and Dad while Brielle, Orchid and I are in the pens. You won't be seen, not until you're twelve."

A long, coal-black snake slithered past me as Korey stuck his tongue out of the window. "Fine." He disappeared back into the window, and the snake passed by quickly as well. Marked with a line of gold that wound around its stick-thin body, the snake continued into the tired streets. Past the pebbles and dust that lined our unpaved road, it turned back, flicked a bright-red tongue, then disappeared into the wilted grass of another yard. I didn't bother it, and it didn't bother me.

I took another look at the street, then opened the front door to head back indoors. Curfew was merely half an hour away, and I didn't like staying out when it could mean being caught by a strict peacekeeper with a chip on their shoulder.

Yes, I was more careful than that. I was the only child in the family who hadn't been whipped by an overseer for a reason, after all.

"Did you have any supper?" My father asked as I walked into the living room. I nodded my head, remembering the dry, thick pieces of bread and spread of vegetables that we had tonight. It wasn't much, but it was more than enough to fill the family up and let us sleep for the night without that gnawing feeling of hunger in the pits of our stomachs. "I didn't notice you at the table."

"I ate before after getting home," I replied. "I wasn't sure if I would have to go in Mom's spot tonight after she was getting over that cold."

Dad grimaced. "She shouldn't be out there… but she's gone and worked another night shift anyway. If Death showed up tonight, he'd have to wait until your mother finished her shift. I married the most stubborn world in the world, Dani!" I smiled, and Dad grinned back at me. "I'm working tonight as well. Make sure your siblings are ready for the reapings tomorrow, and we'll see you there. And take care of your hair, Dani!"

We both dissolved into laughter, knowing full well that my father was the last person to think of taking care of his hair. After all, Dad didn't have to do much other than massage his bald scalp in order to take care of the three strands of hair that he sported. With the wiry mess of black hair that almost touched my shoulders, I had to brush it out every day to make sure it didn't get too tangled.

My sisters paraded into the room and demanded that Dad said goodnight to them, and he gave them both quick hugs before heading down the street and to the truck that would pick up the night workers. Mom had taken an earlier truck to the orchards, where she'd stay the rest of the night.

Most nights ended like this.

My family is made up of hard workers. We finish our shifts, get the food on the table, and take care of each other. We don't fight much, or do anything much at all other than work. There are days where we barely get to speak to one another, let alone take care of our little brother - who, with only a few hours of work in the fields, had the best part of the day to himself. Sometimes, I could hear Brielle mutter things about Korey burning the house down or shocking himself to death while we were gone - things I had never thought about when I left for work and came back in the evening light, but things that I now worried about as well.

I suppose that's partly the fault of the older children for not having the time to care for Korey, but who could blame us? It's _hard_ to keep working when your muscles ache but you need to finish the shift or else you won't get paid. It's _hard_ to carry another crate of fruit when the sweat is getting into your eyes but the overseer is right behind you and if you drop it you're going to get a bad whipping. It's _hard_ to work ten hours a day _at least_, knowing that it'll make you a few meagre sesterces.

But when you finally make enough money to get dinner on the table, it's all worth it.

As I tuck my hair up into a bun that won't get caught on anything, I remember my first shift. It had been filled with older workers annoyed that I could not lift the things they wanted me to, whispering at me to calm my shaking hands as I reached out for the highest fruits on the highest trees, and hiding the fruit I spilt as my small legs tried to keep at a pace that the overseers wanted me to stay at. I had wanted to go home desperately and used the meagre pay to buy a loaf of bread from the bakery before running home. Perhaps it would get Mom in the mood to listen to me rant about work.

But when I got to the house and handed my mother the bread, I saw the tears of gratitude and pain in her eyes. I was growing up, just like my older sisters who were now working long shifts and complaining about all of their struggles to me. With my help, with my silence and hard work, I could make them proud.

I kept quiet then, and made sure that I didn't complain about my aching limbs and my sore head whenever I took the long way home.

I still do. I try.

My sisters talked to each other and teased Korey while I comb my hair, then take the brush. Brielle, then Orchid go through the same ritual of combing the knots out of their hair before putting the brush back, making sure to clean it every time. It had been a rare gift from our mother, an apology for the mess of hair that we had inherited from her.

Soon, we all quieted down and headed to the room that we shared. Korey leapt into his small mattress and busied himself with the broken toys that he jealously guarded against us all while we settled into our own beds and found a comfortable position to sleep in.

Long after Korey started to snore and Brielle and Orchid stopped whispering to one another, I fell asleep. I always did - it was good to be the last one awake, the last girl to toy with her thoughts of love and loss and everything in between while I listened to the sound of soft, steady breathing.

Well, except for Korey's snoring.

_And what would become of me?_ I wondered as I started to close my eyes and pull the thin cover over my body. Tomorrow would be another day, another chance to bring home food for the family and save up for my own future. Would I earn enough when the reapings were over and the fruit still needed to be harvested? Would I be able to see Cliff by chance, if we were on the same shift or managed to head for water at the same time? Would we have enough time to murmur a few words and remind each other that we had our whole lives ahead of us, a future with one another?

But as always, before I could answer any of the questions I sought the answers for, my head hit the pillow and I fell into another long, restless sleep - punctuated by shouting peacekeepers and rumbling trucks, populated by the many workers who I had seen whipped before my eyes. _Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!_

I dreamt of leather whips and bleeding backs, of coal-black snakes and mockingjays.

* * *

**Sebastian Mathas, 17  
****District Eleven Male  
matts0688**

I open my eyes to complete darkness. It's always dark in my room, my mom got dark curtains for my bedroom when I was little because I've always struggled to get to sleep but it's too dark to be time to wake up. "Bash!" I hear. It sounds like Autumn's voice. She's my big sister and my best friend but clearly our friendship is being tested if she expects me to get out of bed in the middle of the night.

I roll over and ignore her, hoping that she'll give up. "Bash!" I hear again, this time closer. Then I hear my doorknob jiggle and the door slowly creak open. I swear I have the squeakiest door in Panem. But this isn't the time to worry about that. Soon enough hear a few quick footsteps, feel my mattress tilt and the feeling of a body beside me.

Now I know what you're thinking and no this isn't one of those brother-sister relationships gone wrong. Any time my big sis has to tell me something that might upset me, she lays on top of the covers while I'm in bed. I've always appreciated it as it helps me take the news more calmly. "Bash I hate to remind you, but its reaping day" she half whispers.

Oh hell, I forgot. Every year I dread the reapings even more since they fall on the busy time between harvest and planting. I've been responsible for our 20 acres of land for the past 5 years since Dad bought 40 more from the neighbours in an effort to bring more food to the table. It's going to take me hours to get the chores done and I do not plan to make mom pick up my slack. I tell Autumn I'll be dressed in a minute. She was nice enough to help me so I don't want to make her wait any longer.

Weeds have grown up in nearly every row beans and the corn needs all of the gates opened up so it can be watered while I'm gone but all of that is done in record time with my big sis helping. I swear, for a girl she's really tough and hardworking. I don't mean that girls are any less than guys but none of the ones in my class seem to have to do half of the work my family does.

I look at my watch and see it's still the middle of the morning. I decide to call up my friend Shannon. He's in the same grade as me and on the football team but he's not quite as athletic. If it's ever a competition between me and him at anything though, I let him win. I know he likes the spotlight more than I do.

Shannon answers the phone "What's up Bash?" He's the only one that calls me that outside of my family. I answer "Chores are done, wanna play some catch before the reaper comes?" Yeah, we have our own slogans to make fun of the reapings, that's just the one I choose at the moment. "Abandoned lot in 10?" He asks. "Make it 5!" I say. We're oddly competitive in who can get ready faster. I take off my farm clothes and slip on some black shorts, a blue tank top, tie my highlighter yellow shoes as fast as I can and I'm out the door.

A few feet before I turn the corner I hear "Think fast" and a football is flying down at me from 20 ft above. I grab it with my right hand, toss it over my left shoulder and say "This may be the first time you beat me here". We laugh at our competitive nature then throw the football around for an hour or so before we realize it's only 30 mins till we need to be at reapings.

"The evil harvester needs his crop of children in a half-hour," Shannon says. He always finds the oddest ways to say it. "Meet ya at the park in 20," I say.

I run home as fast as possible, travelling the third of a mile in nearly a record 2 mins. I see mom in the hallway so I give her a quick hug and say I gotta change. I get to my room and strip off all of my athletic clothes in seconds as I grab khaki short out of my dresser drawer and a navy blue and white striped polo shirt off the hanger in my closet. I know this might not be the most up to date fashion but it's as fashionable as I care to be for such a dumb and sad ceremony.

I put on my clothes quick enough to know I have a few minutes to talk to mom and Autumn. "Who wants to come with me?" Autumn is 19 so she doesn't have to be there but she's supportive. Mom says she has to help dad with the farm, but Autumn says "sure bud!" Her other name for me, I hate when she says it because it makes me feel small but I never tell her that for what reason I don't know.

We half walk, half jog to the park because I forgot I was meeting Shannon there for a minute. After 10 minutes we arrive there and Shannon is already there shouting "You're on a roll". Likely meaning this is the first time he's beat me to a spot even though I was on time both times. We all three walk over to the reapings, Autumn trying to comfort us about how many people are in the District and how neither of us has taken tesserae. It helps a little but I still hate it. Autumn parts with us and stands back as we head to the section for 17-year-old boys. Soon I'm at the front and nearly scream at the Peacekeeper as I get my finger pricked. I hate needles. Soon after I pile into a crowd full of my classmates, I see some fake lady with literally lime green hair and charcoal skin giving a speech about how merciful the capitol is and how great the hunger games are. The anthem plays and I just want it to be over. After what feels like hours she says "And now for the tributes of this year's Hunger Games! Ladies first"

She says a name, and a girl goes up on stage, I don't pay attention to the name or what she looks like, I want to remember as little of this as possible so I don't have to think of her dying. "Now for the boys."

"Sebastian Mathas!"

I black out. Well not really, I move but not voluntarily. My legs take me up to the stage without me telling them to somehow. Next thing I know I'm shaking hands with a girl who is no longer faceless as I hoped. Her loose grip and tells me she might take a while to warm up and her cocoa eyes staring off in the distance tell me it may take every ounce of charm I have to convince her I'm not the enemy. Everyone in 11 knows we have little to no chance if we turn on each other.

I give her a friendly smile and we're taken off our separate ways. Two peacekeepers tightly grip each one of my biceps and are nearly dragging me off stage, I don't resist because I know it's pointless. Soon we arrive in a building I'm unfamiliar with. It's dimly lit and has few windows, likely to make sure tributes don't try to escape. The peacekeepers leave the room and shut the door, I sit on the only chair in the room not knowing what to expect. I've never heard nor cared to know what happens between when a tribute is reaped and when they start training. I didn't even want to know about the training but I remember hearing about it in school.

Soon, I see the door open abruptly and I'm alarmed until I realize Autumn is running at me full speed with tears in her eyes. I get up immediately and give her the tightest hug I know how to give, seconds later I feel her tears drenching my shoulder and hear one word whispered quietly in my ear "Win". I loosen my grip on her to look into her eyes and she follows up with "I know you can do it! You're the fastest kid in the district and you may not be the smartest kid in school but you have more common sense than anyone I know". I nod my head, the only thing I resent out of that is that she called me a kid. Just as I'm lost in that train of thought I head a toddler's voice shout "Bashan!" I see my 2-year-old nephew Luka run up to me and give me a hug. He has no idea what's going on but he always gives a large hug when he sees me.

Next walks in my oldest sister Rosalia, Mom, Dad and Shannon. They all give me a few words of encouragement. Shannon saying if I can't win, he doesn't think anyone from 11 ever will again and dad handing me my dog tag chain with my name and address on it while saying "Do whatever you need to win but don't forget who you are or where you're from".

Wise words that I needed to hear. I start giving Dad a hug, then move over to mom when I hear the door open and immediately the same two peacekeepers grab me tightly by the shoulders and push me out of the door. I know enough to know where the next stop is, they're taking me to the train and I won't ever see my family again. No, I can't think that way. I have to do whatever it takes to make it back home to them.


	4. District 12 Reaping

**Rook Anticline, 13  
District Twelve Male  
****Elim9**

They used to close the mines on Reaping Day.

That's what Uncle Cliff says, at least. Mother and Father don't like talking about how things used to be. Better not to dwell on the past, they say. But they know that just means I'll ask Uncle Cliff, instead. He always likes talking about what things were like before – before the rebellion.

They used to close the mines on Sundays, too, and at night. It's enough to make you wonder how they ever got anything done. As long as you have workers for all the shifts, after all, where's the harm in keeping things running at night? It's not as if there's any difference down in the mines. It's completely dark down here, day or night, except for whatever light you bring with you.

Personally, I actually prefer the night shift. It's quieter, and for a while, it meant I could still go to school during the day. But it was too much to keep up with – working all night in the mines and trying to stay awake during class. A few weeks after last year's Games, I dropped out of school entirely to go to work full-time in the mines.

My older brother Rhys says there's no shame in that. He dropped out a few years ago, but he says he learned all the important stuff. He can read, he can write, and he can do enough math to know that we're dirt poor. Coal poor, really. At least you can plant stuff in dirt, and you might get something out of it later. Coal is really only useful for burning.

I didn't work the night shift last night, though – mostly because reapings are already boring enough without the extra worry of possibly falling asleep. Last year, it was a lot of standing around with nothing to do but worry, followed by a few moments of sheer terror – and then a sort of guilty relief when my name _wasn't _the one called. I have no reason to think this year will be any different. Of course, everyone's worried they might be the one who's picked, but it's only my second year. My name is only in the bowl ten times.

That probably sounds like a lot. But Rhys' name is in the reaping bowl thirty times. And I know plenty of other kids – kids with bigger families – who take even more tesserae. Sure, kids my age who _don't _need to take tesserae only have their names in twice, but that's the exception in Twelve, not the norm. Most of us take tesserae. We have to in order to survive. It's just the way things are.

Just like working in the mines. It's dangerous work, but someone has to do it. Not that I was ever really cut out to be a miner like the rest of my family. But the younger, skinnier kids like me are perfect for exploring new sections of the caves, new areas to mine. We can crouch and scurry and slink through places full-grown adults wouldn't be able to. They call us goblins, but most of them mean it in a nice way. It's dangerous work, since there's always the possibility of a cave-in whenever you're in a new area. But it helps put food on the table.

Which was why I'm spending the morning of Reaping Day down in the mines, a rope tied around my waist to guide me back to the entrance – as long as the ceiling doesn't collapse behind me. People keep talking about what a shame it is – making us kids work when the reaping's in only a few hours. But to be honest, I'm glad to have something to do, something to keep my mind off what might happen. Nothing I can do will change who gets picked, so worrying about it … well, that just seems like a waste of time.

Just as I start making my way forward into the next section of the tunnels, however, I feel a tug at the rope around my waist. "Rook!" calls a voice, and even at this distance, the volume makes a few of the rocks vibrate. "Come on back. It's almost three."

I start inching my way back along the narrow passageway without a second thought. The voice belongs to Mace, our supervisor, and there's no point in arguing with him. Ever since he lost the lower half of his leg in a mine accident a few years ago, he's been in charge of our group of goblins. He's not exactly what I'd call harsh, but he doesn't tolerate arguments or backtalk, and he takes his job seriously and treats us like adults.

I like that about him.

Almost everyone else is on lunch break by the time I make it out, but I immediately head for the map in the corner to fill in a few things before they slip my mind. Mace lets me finish, then gives me a pat on the shoulder. "Go home, Rook. The mine'll still be here tomorrow."

He's right. I _know _he's right. But a part of me doesn't want to go home just yet, because that means it's getting close to reaping time. As long as I can stay at the mines, as long as I have something to _do_, then Reaping Day doesn't seem quite so bad.

"Go," Mace repeats. "Spend some time with your family."

That does the trick. He _knew _that would do the trick, too. Rhys is probably already home. He's as hard a worker as anyone could ask for, but once he's done for the day, he's done. "See you tomorrow," I call to Mace as I scurry out the door.

I'm immediately struck by the brightness. You never get used to it, really – the sudden light after you've been down in the dark of the mines for hours. I blink, then blink again, then close my eyes for a moment, blocking out most of the light. I walk most of the rest of the way home with my eyes half-shut, still squinting a bit until I finally step inside our home, the dim light providing some relief.

Our home isn't much. It's little more than a shack, really, but so are most homes in the district. One room for the five of us – myself, Rhys, our parents, and Uncle Cliff. But at least we _have _a home; that's more than some people in Twelve can say.

Rhys is already standing just inside the door when I arrive, his arms crossed in mock impatience. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd gotten yourself lost down there."

I shake my head. Even if I didn't have a rope to guide me back, I'm pretty sure I would never get lost down in the mines. Maybe a few years ago, when I was just starting, but not anymore. "Just finishing up a few things."

Rhys claps me on the shoulder. "There'll always be a few more things to finish up. The mine's not going anywhere, and neither are we. We'll both be back there tomorrow."

_Unless one of us is picked. _He doesn't say the words, but they hang in the air, unspoken. If I'm chosen, after all, I'll have bigger things to worry about than the mines. And if Rhys is chosen…

I don't even want to think about that.

* * *

Ten minutes later, I'm dressed and ready to go. Rhys' old reaping outfit is a bit baggy and faded, but no point in spending money on new clothes when I'll outgrow them soon enough, anyway. Actually, I'm nearly as tall as Rhys when I stand up straight – just a lot skinnier. But when you spend a lot of time on your hands and knees crawling through tunnels, standing up straight becomes a thing you have to remind yourself of.

I do manage to remind myself, though, as Rhys and I are joined by our parents and Uncle Cliff, and the five of us head to the square together. The sun is still painfully bright, but my eyes are beginning to adjust again by the time we reach the square. One quick finger prick, and Rhys and I head to our separate sections – me near the back with the other thirteen-year-olds, Rhys near the front with the seventeen-year-olds.

Slowly, the square begins to fill, and so does the stage. Mayor Madge Undersee takes her place, along with our only Victor, Felicity Shaft. She won three years ago, before I started working in the mines, but Rhys always said she was one of the strongest workers. You'd have to be, to have a real chance in the Games. Certainly none of us smaller goblins would stand a chance.

I shake the thought from my head as our escort, Septima, draws a name from the girls' bowl. All I can hope for, really, is that it's no one I know. No one I work with in the mines. I hold my breath as Septima reads the name. "Cadence Farrow."

The girl who makes her way to the stage from the twelve-year-old section is trembling like a leaf, fidgeting with the buttons on her dress, her fingers flicking up to straighten the braids in her red hair, to adjust her glasses, to wipe away a few tears as she reaches the stage. I don't recognize her, but I don't really know too many people outside the mines anymore.

Okay. Well, not that it's ever _okay _that someone's going to what's probably their death – especially a twelve-year-old – but at least it's no one I know. Sure, we'll hope for her to come back, just like District Twelve's tributes last year, and the year before that, and the year before. But it's no coincidence that District Twelve was one of the last districts to bring home a Victor after the rebellion. Whether the Capitol has it in for us because of Katniss, or whether we're just scrawny and underfed or maybe just unlucky, District Twelve just doesn't do well in the Games. We never have.

"Rook Anticline."

_What?_

Without thinking, my gaze flickers to Rhys' section. Maybe he'll volunteer. It's happened before.

_Remember how that turned out?_

Rhys looks away. Of course he won't volunteer. He knows as well as anyone what that would look like to the Capitol, to the rest of the districts. _Katniss _volunteered to save her little sister. Anyone else who does that now…

_Okay._

I take a step towards the stage. Well, more of a shuffle, really. My feet don't want to move. But I can already see the Peacekeepers heading towards me, ready to step in if I decide to run. But running … No, that's not an option. I have a feeling my legs wouldn't move that fast at the moment even if I wanted to try.

I'm not used to that. I'm used to scrambling through the mines on my hands and knees quicker than some people would be able to walk the same distance. But now my legs simply won't respond. Not for more than a slow shuffle at a time. Little by little. Bit by bit. The crowd is probably getting impatient. I know I would be, if I was watching. But it's all I can do to keep my legs moving at all.

Finally, I can see the steps up to the stage. It's only then that I realize I've been looking down at my feet the whole time. "Damn," I hiss under my breath, trying to stand up a little straighter, trying my best to look taller and stronger. To look like my brother, my parents, my uncle.

To look like someone who might have a chance.

I look up a little, blinking in the sunlight, blinking away a few tears before they can fall. _Just get it over with. _I hold out my hand to my new district partner. Up close, I can see that she's shaking, just like me. Her brown eyes are wide behind her thick glasses. She's probably just as desperate to get this over with as I am.

She shakes my hand, and that's it. Just like that, the reaping's over, and the pair of us are ushered off the stage. It seems like there should be something … more. Something to help it sink in. But the crowd just starts to evaporate, everyone going their separate ways. Going back to their normal lives.

Everyone except us.

* * *

The Peacekeepers lead me to a small room inside the Justice Building. Almost immediately, my family rushes in – my parents, Rhys, Uncle Cliff. Mother's already crying. Everyone else is trying to hold it together, but I can already feel tears in my own eyes. I blink hard, fighting them back.

No one seems to know what to say, but I can't really blame them for that. I'm not sure what I would have said, if Rhys had been the one chosen. And I _really _don't know what I would have said if he'd actually gone and volunteered for me. Part of me can't help but be grateful that he didn't. That I won't have to blame myself for his death.

I hope he won't blame himself for mine.

_I'm going to die._

I try to ignore the thought, but it keeps bouncing right back inside my head as my family hugs me tight. Only a handful of tributes from District Twelve have ever survived the Games, and none as young as me.

"I'm sorry," Rhys whispers, his arms wrapped around me. "I'm so sorry. I—"

I swallow hard. "Don't be. I'll be back. And then you'll never have to work in the mines again. None of you will. We can go live in Victors' Village together, and…"

My voice trails off as I see their faces. My parents are looking at each other. Even Uncle Cliff looks away when I glance over at him. Rhys just holds me closer.

They _want _to believe me. They're trying _so _hard to believe what I'm saying. But I know, somewhere deep down, that they don't. And the worst part is that I can't really blame them for that.

I don't believe me, either.

Still, it feels good to say it. To hold onto some sort of hope – even false hope – that I'll see them again, that this isn't really goodbye. I force a smile as the Peacekeepers knock on the door, letting them know their time is up. One last hug, and then they're gone.

_Okay._

The next knock on the door catches me by surprise. I wasn't really expecting anyone besides my family, but I manage a smile as Mace hobbles through the door, his crutch under one arm. Mace nods awkwardly back. "Mind if I sit?"

I nod, and he eases himself into a seat next to mine. "You be careful in there, Rook. Some of those kids will be tough – tougher than you. Stronger than you, too."

I hold back a sigh. He's not telling me anything I don't already know. But there's something in his voice. Something he isn't saying.

Something I've always wondered…

"Especially the ones from District Two?" I venture.

I was expecting … something. Some sort of reaction. Surprise, maybe even anger. I'd always figured it was a sensitive topic. Instead, Mace chuckles. "Was it that obvious?"

"Mace isn't exactly a District Twelve name," I point out.

"Fair enough," Mace agrees. "After the smoke cleared from the war, I ended up on a train heading here. Never saw much point in trying to fix their mistake. My family was gone, and one mine's as good as another."

"So you weren't…"

"A Career? Goodness no, Rook, though I'll admit I dreamed about it for a while when I was younger. Most kids in Two did. Still do, I reckon. But I wasn't strong enough, fast enough, or rich enough to get into the academy." He shook his head. "Good thing I didn't, too. I'd have never made it out of the Games."

I look away. If Mace doesn't think _he _could have won the Games, what chance does someone like me have? But Mace reaches over and grips my shoulder tightly. "Don't you go thinking like that," he scolds. "Don't you give up."

"But I…" I trail off, unsure how that sentence should end. But then all the options come out at once. "I'm not tough. I'm not strong. I'm not fast. I'm not even clever."

"Maybe not," Mace agrees. "But you're the best goblin I've got."

It may have sounded strange, coming from anyone else. But from Mace, there's no higher praise. He gives my shoulder a squeeze and holds out something in his other hand. It's a small scrap of paper – the sort of paper we use to map out the mines. "In case your folks didn't think to bring a token," he offers.

They didn't. They'd had other things on their minds, and so had I. But Mace is always good with the little details that other people might forget. I turn the paper over a few times, but it's blank. "I figured you could write something on it, if you like, or just leave it blank," Mace explains. "Sort of a clean slate, if you will. You get to choose what you want it to be." He gives my shoulder another squeeze. "Remember that, Rook."

"Okay." There isn't much else to say. I stuff the paper in my pocket as the Peacekeepers knock on the door.

Mace hauls himself to his feet, adjusting his crutch under his arm as he turns to me. "I'll see you when you get back, you hear?"

He looks me in the eye when he says it.

None of the others had. They'd wanted to. They'd wanted to believe that they would see me again, but they hadn't wanted me to see the tears in their eyes because they _knew _I was as good as dead. But Mace … he really thinks I have a chance. He believes it, even if I don't.

I draw myself up as tall as I can. "Maybe you will."

Mace's answering smile could melt solid ice. "That's the spirit, Rook." He gives me a wink as he leaves, and for a moment – just a moment – I wonder if maybe I _will _see him again. His words keep echoing around in my head as the door shuts behind him. _You're the best goblin I've got._

I wonder if that will be enough.

* * *

**Cadence Farrow, 12  
****District Twelve Female  
****Elim9**

I know I'm luckier than most.

Well, most in District Twelve, anyway. My family used to own our own plot of land back in District Ten. That's what Ma and Pa say, anyway. They raised cows, and maybe it wasn't the most well-paying job, but they always managed to get by. They were happy. "As happy as anyone could expect to be in Panem." That's what they say when I ask.

Then everything went wrong. The rebellion. The Mockingjay. Suddenly, District Ten wasn't safe anymore. Nowhere was _really _safe, of course, and a lot of people ended up moving from one place to another, trying to find somewhere that wasn't being bombed or worse. My parents did the same thing. They kept their heads down, moving from place to place, and managed to avoid the worst of the fighting.

Once it was over, of course, everyone wanted to go home. But some people ended up getting shipped off to the wrong place. Pa says that was probably exactly what the Capitol meant to do. A _lot _of people from Twelve died in the war, so the Capitol shuffled people around a bit.

All of that was before I was born, of course, but District Twelve still doesn't really feel like home. Maybe that's because our family never really bothered trying to fit in. Instead of becoming coal miners like most of the rest of Twelve, they started a butcher shop. Except Twelve doesn't really have cows or pigs, so it's mostly birds. Chickens and turkeys that wandered in from the wild during the war, when Twelve was abandoned, and never quite made their way back where they belong.

Kind of like us.

Still, we're luckier than most, and there's really no sharper a reminder of that than the fact that I didn't really have anything to _do _this morning. There's no school on Reaping Day, but a lot of kids my age are already down in the mines, scouting out tunnels or hauling loads of supplies back and forth.

But I don't have to. I still go to school full-time, and as long as I keep taking tesserae, I shouldn't have to worry about dropping out for a while. Tesserae – now _that's _something Ma and Pa had a huge fight about. We needed the money, and I was the one who offered to take out tesserae. Pa said no, but Ma … she understands. She knew how much I wanted to contribute. Sure, I already help out part-time in the butcher shop after school, but this was one more simple thing I could do, and all it costs is … what? Having my name in the reaping bowl three times instead of one.

That was the compromise – three slips. I could technically have taken out more – one slip for me, one for Ma, one for Pa, and one for each of the twins. Along with the one I have because I'm twelve, that would have been six slips. Three … well, that isn't very many at all, compared to what some of the other kids have. And if it means a bit more food on the table, it's worth the risk.

Isn't it?

Anyway, it's not much of a risk. That's what I keep trying to tell myself as I kick our makeshift ball to Reuben. But as much as I try to pretend that everything is normal, even the twins are a bit quieter than they were last year.

Until this year, Reaping Day hasn't really seemed all that bad. Reuben and Graham are only eight, so it'll be a few more years until they're even eligible. So until now, all Reaping Day has really meant is a day off of school, and then worrying briefly about whether one of our classmates' older siblings might be called.

It hasn't happened. I haven't known _anyone _who was reaped. But this year, it might be any of my classmates.

It might be _me_.

Three slips…

_No_. The ball bounces off my foot and directly towards Graham. I have to stop thinking like that. In a few hours, I'm going to be right back here, playing ball with these two, and everything will be fine until next year. Well, not _fine_, but as good as it's going to get here in Twelve.

Just a few more hours.

* * *

There's already a crowd by the time we arrive at the square. No one wants to be late for the reaping, after all. I take my place with the other twelve-year-olds, fiddling with the buttons on my dress. It doesn't fit quite right, but it was cheap – a hand-me-down from one of my classmate's older sisters. Like the glasses I got from a friend of the family. They're not _quite _right, but they're better than nothing, and they're what we could afford.

I push my glasses up and try to peer over the crowd. When I was smaller, Pa let me sit on his shoulders to see. I stand up a little straighter, almost on the tips of my toes, trying to get a good look as our escort, Septima, joins the mayor onstage. Whose idea was it to have the twelve-year-olds stand at the very back?

At least we can hear her just fine. My fingers fiddle with the end of my braid as she finally, _finally_ nears the reaping bowl. Just one name. One name, and then I can stop worrying. Then everything will be fine, and I can go back home to my family and—

"Cadence Farrow."

My fingers immediately freeze, clutching one of my braids. I rock back onto my heels, trying to regain my balance. Trying to catch my breath. Stumbling a little, I take a step towards the stage. Then a few more. A Peacekeeper appears next to me out of the crowd, as if I was even thinking of running.

I clench my fists tightly, trying to stop the tears that are welling up in my eyes. My little brothers are watching. I'm not going to cry. I'm not going to cry.

Okay, I'm not going to cry _a lot_, I correct myself as a few tears slip out as I step onto the stage. I wipe them away, then look around. Mayor Undersee looks away. Septima quickly turns her attention to the next bowl. Our only Victor, Felicity, gives me a slight nod and then turns her attention back to Septima, who's already drawing a second name.

"Rook Anticline."

The thirteen-year-old section parts around a boy, hunched over and glancing frantically in the direction of the older boys. Who's he looking for? A brother, maybe. Does he _really _think someone is going to volunteer? Twelve hasn't had _any _volunteers since Katniss, and that isn't going to change anytime soon.

After a moment, the boy seems to realize the same thing, and begins shuffling towards the stage, staring at his boots – work boots, from the mines. He doesn't look much like a miner, though. The rest of his clothes are baggy, hanging loose around his scrawny limbs. I can hear him mutter something under his breath as he reaches the stage, and he finally straightens up a bit.

He's taller than he looked at first – taller than me, at least, although that's not really saying much. There's coal dust on his olive skin and in his hair. His dark brown eyes are wide and frightened, and his hand is shaking as he holds it out to me.

So is mine.

We shake hands, and the crowd does its best to muster some applause. It's half-hearted, resigned, like so many things in Twelve. It's just enough to let the Capitol know that we're not planning anything stupid. That we've learned our lesson. That we know better than to try anything.

No one tries anything. No one does anything. And no one expects them to – not even me, a twelve-year-old who's just been chosen for the Hunger Games. This isn't a fairy tale. This is real, and no one is just going to step in and save me.

I'll have to save myself.

* * *

I manage to hold onto that thought as we're led to the Justice Building. But as soon as my family arrives, I just … can't. It's not _fair_. It wasn't supposed to be me. It was supposed to be … I don't know. Someone else. _Anyone _else.

I bury my face in Ma's dress as Pa wraps his arms around both of us. Reuben and Graham wriggle in, trying to get close. Pa is apologizing, and it takes me a moment to even realize what it is that he's apologizing for. "We should never have let you take tesserae. I'm sorry. I'm _so _sorry. I knew it wasn't worth it. It's all our fault. We shouldn't have let you—"

I draw a shaky breath, wiping away some of the tears. It hadn't even occurred to me to blame them. It wasn't their fault. It was just bad luck. But I know, looking up into Pa's face, that he'll blame himself. Or maybe he'll blame Ma. And the twins … now they'll be _terrified _to take tesserae. Without the extra money they could get from that, and without me around to help out in the shop…

"No." The word slips out of my mouth before I can stop it. "I'm not going to let that happen."

Ma holds me a little tighter. "I'm so sorry, dear. It's already _happened_. They picked you."

"I _know _that," I insist. How old does she think I am? Three? I know what happened. I know what could happen in the Games. But I'm not going to _let _it. "I mean I'm not going to let them kill me. I'm not going to die. I'm coming back."

I can feel Ma's tears on my dress. She doesn't believe me. None of them do. But that's all right. I don't need them to believe me. I just need to believe it myself. As long as I believe that I have a chance, that's what matters.

Isn't it?


	5. Interlude

**Interlude**

* * *

**Daniel Hollins, 32 Years Old  
****District One Victor, 77th Hunger Games**

"_I wish there was some way I could control the variables, but if the time in darkness taught me anything, it's that the world is larger than my grasp." ~Pierce Brown_

I wasn't sure what I should expect anymore.

I used to think that once we had a victor or two under our belts, the Career system of old could return. We used to be pushing ourselves to the limit, trying to out-pace districts two and four, but ever since the rebellion, the playing field has been drastically leveled. It worked because even though district one wasn't the worst place to live, there was always some sense of safety and respect that came from being a victor, and that yes, that was something to potentially risk your life for, but from what I heard, there were some people starting to reconsider if it was even worth it prior to the 75th games.

The purge of victors after the rebellion made certain that it was not going to be as much of a draw as it had been in the past, but it's been worse than some of us were thinking it would be. Who knows, maybe the reality check of the purge showed us that being kept in the spotlight, while having its benefits, could be harmful in the long run. The academy has still been open, and is often crowded, but it's seemed that less people are there to actually train. Instead, they're just looking for something to do, and often aren't taking the lessons seriously enough to have enough effect if they were to go into the games.

But maybe that's just me. Maybe, as young as I am, I had seen too much of what it could have been in the past. We're now at a time where none of the tributes would have been more than a newborn during the last rebellion, and the current decline that we're on is just one of many ups and downs the Career districts sometimes have. But I don't think so. I still recall when you could look up at the stages for the reapings and you would know just from the stage whether you were looking at the Careers or the outer-districts. Now? If they were all set with the same background, you could barely tell them apart, and you'd maybe correctly begin to wonder what could be different now with the Careers and if it was worth it.

After I'd won my games at only sixteen, I'd been hoping that would reignite the fire that the Career districts used to have, and it did, but it seems that it dwindled just as quickly. A few years ago, I would have pointed to this year and the years around it as a potential hot-spot for victors, but now I'm no longer sure if a hot-spot would even exist. We had the largest group at the academy since the rebellion less than three years ago, and some had been training for the games since they started school, but now I've had multiple potential tributes, no, potential victors, come up to me in the past months and say that they would continue their training, as they wanted to complete it, but that they had no intention of representing our district.

Maybe they have the right idea, that while it's good to be prepared, there is no reason to unnecessarily throw yourself into a fight to the death with 23 other teenagers, and that they're content with their lives in District One without needing their chance for glory, for honor, and their time in the spotlight, but I still hold out hope that maybe some of them will change their minds. Without another spark in the turnout of trainees, there's no guarantee that one day instead of being faced with having under-aged volunteers like myself, we could be faced with the whole different problem of having tributes with little to no training at all. If we got that far, maybe then the district would be encouraged to look back and see how good having a steady Career system had been. I fear if we get to that point, we will then be too far gone to turn back. Maybe we're too far down that path already, but I will do my best to at least attempt to reignite the competitive fire we once had. It's all I can do.

* * *

**Athena Arkose, Peacekeeper**

I hate Reaping Day.

Not for the same reason most people out here in the districts do. Two kids from our district being ripped from their families, sent off to almost certain deaths, et cetera, et cetera. Personally, I don't think it's a lot of _fun_ watching kids tear each other to pieces, but if people out here were honest with themselves, they'd realize worse things happen pretty much every day here in the outer districts.

There are children starving every day. Why is it worse when some of them happen to starve to death in the Games? People die here on a regular basis for much flimsier reasons than a little entertainment. Maybe someone walked down the wrong street on the wrong night. Maybe a morphling deal gone bad. Or maybe they mouthed off to the wrong Peacekeeper.

Problem is, those 'wrong peacekeepers' tend to be more common around Reaping Day. The newer recruits are all on edge, worried that every new tribute might turn out to be the next Mockingjay. It probably won't happen. It almost _certainly_ won't happen this soon. I've been around the block long enough to know that, but saying so isn't going to stop the greener Peacekeepers from being anxious.

And when they're anxious, it rubs off on everyone. It's almost like the crowds can smell it. Most of them aren't stupid enough to try anything outright rebellious, of course, but they're always more tense. And it doesn't take much to make a tense group of people snap.

_Everything breaks if you apply the right force._ That's what my brother always says. Of course, he was talking about engineering, not people, but the same principle applies. Under the right pressure, the right circumstances, the right amount of tension, everything breaks. Everyone breaks.

It's our job to make sure we're not the ones who break. To make sure it's not the law that breaks. To make sure that the peace isn't broken – only bent. We're Peacekeepers, after all. It's not a fun job. It's not an easy one. It's thankless and frustrating and sometimes dangerous. But it's necessary. _We're_ necessary. That's what I keep telling myself.

So far, I've always managed to believe it.

* * *

**Harvey Moquette, Avox**

It still feels wrong, somehow.

I close my eyes as I sink a little deeper into the bed. It isn't a particularly nice bed as far as Capitol standards are concerned, but it's still worlds better than anything I had back in District Eight, and _certainly _better than anything I had to sleep on during the rebellion. I was in the trenches, so to speak, running back and forth, delivering messages here and there. I was a kid, but I wanted to feel like I was doing my part, even if it got me killed.

But it didn't get me killed. It got me _captured_. At first, I was sure that was going to be worse. And it might have been, if one of the older prison guards hadn't taken pity on me. He told me that if I was good, if I was obedient, if I _cooperated_, then he would make sure things worked out for me. I was just a kid in the trenches, just a messenger. I didn't know any secrets – none they hadn't learned by the time they caught me, anyway. If I had, though, I'm sure I would have spilled them in an instant. I was so scared, I would have told them anything.

There was nothing to tell, so I kept my mouth shut. I kept my head down. I behaved, unlike some of the other prisoners who were always causing trouble. Once it was all over, some of them were executed. Some of them were sent back to the districts. And some of us were selected to become avoxes.

See, when the rebellion broke out, some of the Capitolites turned on their avoxes, afraid that they would side with the rebels and kill them in their sleep or something. So there was a shortage, and the wealthier families were always looking for obedient, cooperative servants. I'd spent weeks – maybe months, even – proving just how obedient I was. I was an obvious choice.

It's supposed to be a punishment, I know. But sometimes it feels like a reward. I was never much of a talker even when I could speak, and now no one expects me to. And in return, I get to live here, in the Capitol. I have my own room – a small room, yes, but one that's _mine_, that I don't have to share with five brothers and sisters. I can't really taste my food properly, but my stomach is always full; there's always plenty left over for all of us.

The truth is, my life is pretty good.

It sometimes feels wrong – enjoying it. I know there are people back in the districts who have it bad. Maybe worse than I ever did. But the sad truth is, there's nothing I can _do _about that. Those of us who fought in the rebellion _know _there's nothing we can do about it. We tried. We failed. All we can do is make the best of what we have left.

And I have more left than most.

* * *

**Genesis Roslin, Cook**

It's all about the small things, really. A dash of seasoning here. A few herbs there. Nothing that would be considered particularly extravagant in the Capitol. But here, on a train heading towards the outer districts … well, this food must seem practically heavenly. Or at least, it will to the tributes we're about to have the pleasure of hosting.

It probably doesn't seem like a very important job – cooking on one of the trains that takes the tributes to the Capitol. It's certainly not very exciting – not compared to the festivities as a whole. But to the tributes … that's different. It's almost certainly their first taste of Capitol food. For some of them, it's the first full, filling meal they've eaten in their short lives. The look on their faces when they taste it – _that's_ something to live for.

Most of them don't notice me, of course. They have more important things on their minds. I'm just another face on the train, just another Capitolite here to help the festivities run smoothly. The people I get to meet – the escorts, the mentors, and especially the tributes themselves – they get all the spotlight. But the truth is, the Games couldn't happen without so many people like me.

I'm a part of it. Maybe not a big part, but a part, nonetheless. I'm part of something that people will remember, something that will last. In some small way, I've contributed. And for a few hours, I've made the tributes' lives a little better. I've made their bellies a little fuller, a little warmer, a little more content.

Contentment – that's the feeling, really. The feeling that washes over me as we finally reach the district. Soon, the tributes will arrive. They'll be frightened, worried, anxious. They'll need reassuring, someone to remind them that it's going to be all right. Even if it isn't.

_Especially_ if it isn't.

Words can't do that. Not really. Their families will try. Their mentors will try. Maybe even their escorts will try to find the right words to calm them, to reassure them. But the truth is, there's nothing quite as reassuring as a good meal. It's called the _Hunger_ Games, after all, because in the end, it's food that nourishes us, that keeps us alive, that reminds us that we are alive.

Right now, words can't help them. Words can't calm them. But I can. Not in a big way, but in a small way. With a bowl, a plate, a spoon full of the best food they've ever tasted. A silent reminder that there's something good waiting for them, something worth living for.

It's a small thing, maybe, but I wouldn't have it any other way.


	6. Interlude II

**Interlude**

* * *

**Leon Garrod, 40  
Gambler**

It was always going to be worth the risk.

I had started gambling casually rather young, but I'd never really gotten hooked until my friends convinced me to go in with them for betting on the first kills for the Hunger Games. I'd always had an interest in the games obviously, but I'd never had a reason to pay attention to the smaller details about the outer district tributes, as I was more focused on the flashier tributes from the career districts, but that all changed.

Now, once they even start the beginning of the coverage, I'm glued to any and all coverage that I can get, from the reapings to even the end of the victory tour, looking for clues on who might bite the dust earlier than expected, who might be more aggressive and active than they might seem at first glance, and most importantly, who actually is showing something that could make them a dark horse victor candidate.

There's money to be had all around. Sure, I'll lose money here and there, but there's usually enough smaller bets to take at any given time that it's quite easy to at least break even. The most popular of the smaller pools has got to be the bloodbath pool, but I've grown fond of the amusing gag bets, such as betting on the number of volunteers, number of tributes to cry being reaped, how many times the hosts say varius catch-phrases on certain days, the sort of things that even if I for some reason am not betting on, I could conceivably turn into a drinking game.

Hell, even if I am betting on them, they often will turn into drinking games eventually. I've hung out with same group of friends betting on the games now for years, we don't even need to have seen each others choices to know when one of our bets just went horribly wrong, and it's often right after that happens that someone suggests we start one of the many drinking games we've picked up over the years. The worst time I can recall was the 77th games, when within the span of three hours, the young upstart volunteer from district one wiped all our choices for victors off the board, and we'd alternated between various drinking bets through the rest of the games. Ever since then, we've silently all added more variety to our victor choices, partially because we've grown different betting habits, but also because I don't think anyone would even want to experience the mess that we were in for the remainder of the games that year.

Due to the abundance of these chances, the payout from these alone is usually enough for me to break even, but it's nowhere near the big prize. Nobody that I ever recall has ever gotten all 24 placements right, and there's been a pool going on for so many years, that if anyone was to ever actually be able to place all of these tributes correctly, they'd win enough money that they could conceivably lose all their future bets for the rest of their lives and still have enough money from that one jackpot to have come out ahead in the end. Sure, a little bit comes out of the pool each time someone manages to get around the top 5, but the amount going in replenishes that amount quicker than it can leave. I don't know if I'll ever see the day that it happens, but I'll always make sure to get my projections in as late as possible to gain any advantage that could be there to be had. The odds are low, but inevitable, one year, someone will finally win big.

Maybe it'll be this year, and maybe it'll be me.

* * *

**Dr. Raphael Linus, 72  
Surgeon**

People just don't _listen_.

I should be used to it by now, I suppose. To most of them, I'm just another face in the background, usually hiding behind a surgeon's mask. By the time my work comes into play, the Games are over, and no one cares anymore. They already have their Victor; they don't really give a damn about how much time and effort goes into making sure that Victor stays alive.

I had an excellent track record going, too. I was on the team way back during the 50th Games. Man, that kid was a _mess _when he made it out of the arena. It was all we could do to keep him breathing. Some of them are like that. Others make it out with only superficial wounds. It depends on the year. It depends on the finale. The audience likes it better when it's a close call, when tributes win by the skin of their teeth.

It certainly makes our job more exciting. Some years, we don't have much to do. Two years ago, a kid won by poisoning the Careers with frogs, of all things. The year before that, though … _that _girl was in bad shape by the time she made it to us. Almost as bad as Haymitch.

Funny how that seems to happen to District Twelve.

Honestly, a lot of us were surprised District Twelve even _got _a Victor that soon after the mess with Katniss and Peeta. Now _that _was a disaster that could have been avoided. I told that idiot Seneca – I tell _every _Gamemaker, not that it does any good – not to put anything poisonous in the arena unless we have an antidote. Because sooner or later, you'll end up needing it.

Not that I ever imagined the situation quite like that. I'd always assumed two tributes would end up poisoning each other accidentally. But if he'd just used something else – something a little slower than nightlock, something we had an antidote for – he could have just let them eat the damn berries. Let one of them die, give the antidote to the other. Problem solved.

But people don't listen.

So instead, _all _the Victors are dead. Well, not quite _all_. Enobaria is the only one left alive from before the rebellion. All those years of hard work, of making sure that they stay alive, all for nothing, because of one stupid move. One stupid tribute. Well, _two_, really, but who's counting?

Everyone, that's who. Counting the days, the months, the years since the rebellion. Counting, and hoping that things go back to the way they were – or at least close. Hoping that the worst of it is over, that it'll be a long time before anything of the sort happens again.

I can only hope that next time, people will listen.

* * *

**Vienna Vaelin, 27  
****Fire-Building Instructor**

Mine usually isn't the busiest station.

It's certainly not one that most people would consider important – not important enough to spend a lot of time at, anyway. Most of the tributes are eager – or at least desperate – to get in some weapons practice. Most of the Careers won't learn anything about weapons in the next few days that they don't already know, but they're usually dying for a chance to show off and prove that they're a threat, or to blow off a bit of steam. Occasionally, if the pack is small, they'll use their training time to scout out potential recruits.

And the outer-district tributes … Well, some of them probably already know how to build a fire. Tributes from Seven, usually. Sometimes Nine, Ten, or Eleven if they've spent time in the more wooded parts of the district. It's usually the tributes from smaller or more urban districts – Three, Five, Six, Eight, Twelve – who think my station is worth stopping at.

More often than not, though, they're happy they did. On the surface, it's nothing complicated, but part of fire-building is knowing when it's _safe _to build a fire. When it could save your life and when it could attract attention. It's things like that – things that seem obvious – the tributes aren't always thinking about when they're making snap decisions in the arena.

So I don't just teach them how to make fires. I train them to really _think _about whether they want to, and why, and whether it's worth doing. If they're just building it to feel a little warmer, a little safer, a little closer to civilization, that's understandable. It's human. We _want _things that make us feel safe. But it's that desire for safety that's often so dangerous in the Games, where _nothing _is safe.

On the other hand, there are times when knowing how to build a fire could legitimately save their lives. Sometimes – not often, but sometimes – it's cold enough at night to kill, rather than just cold enough to make them uncomfortable, tempt them into building a little beacon to lead the Careers to them. Knowing how to recognize that boundary between "uncomfortable" and "deadly" is important.

And having the means to light a torch can be useful if it might be their only weapon, the only defense they might have. It might not do them much good against other tributes, but mutts are a different story. And there are times when being able to see their surroundings could save a tribute's life, or when being able to boil water they've found can mean the difference between spending the next day or two alert and ready to fight or spending them doubled over puking because of whatever nasty bacteria was in the water.

They don't think about that. They really don't. And how can you expect them to? They're kids. Kids who are being told that they have to fight to the death, so it's natural for them to focus on the _fighting _part. But being able to survive long enough and well enough to be _prepared _for a fight – that's just as important. Most of them won't realize that, but some of them will.

And those are the ones I'm here for.

* * *

**Athalia Pell, 19  
****Junior Cameraman**

My family is so proud of me.

I keep trying to tell them it's not a big deal, that most of this stuff is automated, anyway. That I'm mostly here to run errands for the senior staff, keep their coffees coming, and try my best to stay out of their way. Don't get me wrong; I love it. I'll get to be closer to the action than I've ever been before, maybe even see some of the tributes up close. That would really be something. But as far as important jobs go, this is pretty close to the bottom of the barrel.

Everyone has to start somewhere, though. The president, the head gamemaker, the host of the Games – they didn't start out at the top. None of them did. They started out somewhere menial, somewhere insignificant, just like me, and they worked their way up. They worked hard, they took every opportunity that came their way, and eventually … eventually things worked out, I guess. That's how it's supposed to work, isn't it?

That's how it's supposed to work in the Capitol, at least. The districts … Well, they're another story. Every year, it seems, they talk about how hard the people in the districts are working to keep all of Panem running. But when the tributes from those districts come to the Capitol, it doesn't look like _anything _has ever worked out for them. All that hard work, and for what? To end up in the Games, where most of them clearly don't want to be.

Of course, it's their own fault that they don't see what an opportunity the Games are. Right in front of them is a chance for fame, for fortune, for a life of luxury and ease, and what do they have to do? Spend a week or two in an arena and fight twenty-three other tributes for it. Compared to a life of hard work back in the districts, it's a surprise that more of them don't jump at the chance. When you think about it that way, Career systems start to really make sense.

It's a wonder more of the districts don't try to do that.

But it's probably a good thing for the Games, too. It wouldn't be much fun if _all _of the districts started sending Careers, if _all _of the tributes were trained and ready for this. Where would be the drama, the suspense, the excitement of wondering which of the other district tributes have what it takes to compete with the Careers. If they were _all _Careers, they would all be able to compete. They would _all _have a chance. And maybe that would be fair, but it certainly wouldn't be very _interesting._

No, a couple of Career districts seems just about right. That's enough to make a pack that's big enough to keep the Games moving, but not big enough to guarantee that they'll win every time. Sure, they have a better chance than most, but tributes still get lucky. In the seventeen years since the Mockingjay Rebellion, after all, the Careers have only won seven times, and each district – even ones like Twelve – has won at least once. Hell, District Nine even won twice. District _Nine_. Maybe it's not completely fair, but it's fair _enough_.

And that keeps it fun.


	7. District 1 Reaping

**Tygo Tsukuda, 17  
****District One Male  
****TheMayflyProject**

There was something to be observed in the fact that the Reapings were in just over a day, and somehow, despite there being no chosen male volunteer as of that point, Tygo Tsukuda was the only one still in the Training Centre. Daniel, however, was steadfastly refusing to observe it.

"Come on, please. You know I can do it, you've seen me beat every single one of the 18-year-olds on that scoreboard."

"Yeah, Tsukuda, and I'm not denying that, but that was before. This is now. And Diana is already refusing her spot, I'm not risking sending in two underage kids for this thing."

"So it's an age thing? Really? That's what's stopping you, your holier-than-thou commitment to reviving the 'ancient traditions', or whatever? You'd really rather send someone who's not willing to be there, who's going to die the moment he hesitates? Because he will hesitate."

"No, I'd rather send someone who's not going to have a seizure, fall off of his plinth, and die before it even starts!" Both men fell suddenly silent, watching each other. Tygo understood, now, what Daniel's problem was with sending him.

"Oh. So it is me, then. It's not my age, it's something I have even less control over. Great." Daniel didn't reply, half an apology etched across his face.

"I'm not going to have a seizure, okay? I've had exactly seven, ever. The odds are so low-" he stopped and changed tacts at the movement of Daniel's eyebrows. "Right, don't put faith in the odds. I know. But realistically, you know I can compensate. I've had almost two years to figure out how to work with this, I'm almost back to my peak performance-"

"Yes, the operative word being almost! Give it another year, Tygo, because I'm not willing to send a kid-"

"I am not a kid anymore."

"But you are, and that's the problem! You're just a kid. So are the older boys, but they're the best we can manage. You're not a man, Tygo, you're a boy. You're still a kid, and thinking that you're not, that for one second you can trust your own snap judgements, is going to get you killed. Why are you doing this, Tygo? Really, why are you still here? And don't say your father; we both know it takes more than that to come back after what happened."

"You already know why. You just want me to say it out loud, you just want me to show you myself. That's what this is, isn't it?" So Tygo showed him. And Daniel saw the look in his eyes and stopped pushing back.

* * *

**Tessa Dane, 15  
****District One Female  
****Howler33**

The clock on Connor's wall was already going on eleven.

I'd gone over to his house immediately after dinner with the rest of my family because he'd said he'd wanted to talk to me about something, but for the hours since, nothing has been out of the ordinary in our conversation. Sure, he'd been asking updates on what our parents were doing, but he'd been doing that with me just to keep tabs on them. I used not to trust him or his methods of getting anything done, but at least he was honest with me for the most part, and even if he was lying, he could at least hide it better than our parents had. That's what led me to trust him some and turn to the career academy even though they'd always advised me not to. They may not be perfect by any means, but at least they can hide their lies, and on a personal level, at least I haven't been able to catch Connor lying to my face.

I started to get up. If I stayed much later, I knew that I'd likely be crashing here for the night. Our parents hadn't liked that either, but they lived with it as long as they knew as they knew that I was here, but tonight was different. They'd want me back at their place so they could make sure I was dressed up to their standards for the reaping, which meant getting back into that black dress that they got for me last year. Yeah, it's necessary, but I never was a huge fan of it anyway.

"Leaving already?" Connor said, with a hint of sarcasm in his voice. It wasn't too long ago where neither of us would have even imagined us wanting to spend this much time together. I'd always seen him as a snake without morals, but as I'd seen our parents' lies more, he at least was consistent. He'd admit that he wasn't really the most reliable or honor-bound person.

"I should get back in to at least rest up some before the reaping tomorrow," I said.

"You planning to throw a wrench in Daniel's plan tomorrow?" he said sarcastically.

"Not a chance. He's already talked to two 18 year olds about it that I've seen. I'm not sure who's gonna be up there, but I don't care to cause any drama there," I said. That would make our parents madder than anything that Connor could do anymore. "Diana told me that she's not reconsidering though, said that in the past year that she's decided volunteering would be too much risk with not enough reward, so it's not as clear cut as it could have been."

That caused Connor to raise an eyebrow. I hadn't seen that coming a few years back either, but Diana had been training harder than anyone I'd ever see, and this was her last chance, so the academy had been thrown into chaos when less than a month ago, she spoke with daniel, and told him that she was planning to stop training and wasn't even thinking about volunteering.

"Well there's gonna be someone stepping up then, I guess," Connor said as he reached for the bottle of wine. He'd gotten to like the taste of it immediately after he left our parent's house, as it always seemed that he'd at least have a glass of it whenever I was over. I didn't ever ask where or how he'd always gotten it. At this point, even though I'm on better terms with him, there are some things that I know that I probably don't want to know the details about. I'd never had a drink with him, and he'd never really offered, but I noticed that there was a second glass and he was looking at it tonight as if he was thinking of pouring a second.

"Care for a glass?" he asked, as if reading my mind. "It is the night before the Games, and I know our parents started to offer me some as I got older on these nights."

I wasn't entirely sure if he was bluffing the last part or not, honestly, but I decided that it didn't matter either way. I nodded, and he started pouring the second glass.

"A toast," he said, raising his glass, as I raised mine to his. "To tomorrow's volunteers."

"To the Volunteers".

* * *

The sun starts to peek through the blinds, and I know that if I wait any longer to get ready, I'd have my parents barging in to make sure I'd be ready in time. I quickly get dressed, and then head into the living room to make sure that my parents approve.

As I go out and make my way to the square, I see a lot of my fellow trainees on their way as well. As I get in line to get my finger pricked, I see Diana a little ways ahead of me, seeming to be arguing with two other people I've seen at the academy. Maybe they're trying to convince her that this is our district's best shot, and that she should take the risk, but at this point, I'm not sure she would be. She hasn't been coming to the academy as regularly as she used to be, and she certainly doesn't seem like she's eager to jump at the chance to return to the spotlight, which is what all of our victors since the second rebellion have seemed to embrace.

As I get settled into my section in the middle, I'm on the edge as usual, so I have a clear sight up the aisle to the stage as well as to the section at the back. I can see Connor making his way around to the spectator's area. He notices that I see him, and he mimes toasting a glass. I lose sight of him as my section begins to fill up, and I lose track of time. Before I know it, Daniel and Cobra are on stage, and the escort has made their way up to the podium, as the clock strikes 8.

She goes through the normal ritual of introducing the Games. I've tuned it out after the second time I've been of reaping age. It's the same basic set-up every year, just with some slight changes depending on the circumstances. Slowly, she makes her way towards the reaping bowl, and even though it's been since the year before Daniel made it back that the name pulled has actually had to go, you can feel the tension mounting in the air.

"For the girls, Diana Woods" she says, and even though it was already rather quiet, you could now hear a pin drop. Is this some cruel joke, or is there more to it? The moment continues to drag on, and yet nobody, not even the two girls I'd told Connor about yesterday, make any movement to break the moment. Diana slowly starts to move now, and yet something doesn't feel right. We'd had plenty of people clawing to be able to potentially have the chance to get in and win for years now, especially since Daniel reinvigorated the career system after the second rebellion. Why have they all gone silent now? I'd even overheard some eighteen year olds saying that they'd be sure to at least try to go their last chance, now nobody was standing up?

"I volunteer," I say before I even realize what I'm doing. It's clear that if nobody was expecting Diana to be reluctant, even less were expecting me to replace her, but this time the reaction isn't a silent shock. I can hear my parents' yelling as I quickly make my way to the stage. Whether they're yelling at me, Diana, the other trainees for not volunteering, or potentially most stupidly the Capitol, I cannot tell. I don't care about who they're mad at right now. The escort looks as relieved as anyone, and hands me the microphone to introduce myself.

After I get settled on stage and shake both of the Victors' hands, I look out to the crowd to see the aftermath. I first catch a glimpse of Diana's face, the one I least want to see right now. However, it's not as angry as I feared it might be, for maybe she'd changed her mind when talking to the girls earlier, but a look of extreme relief, and I know I've made the right choice. Was she potentially a better option originally? Most likely, but she'd made her choice when she'd told everyone she wasn't going to volunteer, and yet nobody else had stepped up.

Before I realize it, the escort has already called the boy's name, and this time without any large commotion, we have our other volunteer, Tygo Tsukuda. I'd trained with him occasionally at the academy in the past few years, and I thought maybe he'd get a chance to be our volunteer eventually. I was somewhat expecting him to wait a year, as he was still seventeen and would have one more chance, however I'm sure he is thinking the same if not more so about me. Soon enough, the cameras shut off, and both Tygo and I are escorted into separate rooms to say our goodbyes. I hope they made them somewhat sound proof, because I know my parents aren't going to stop their yelling even if there's nothing they can do now.

* * *

They couldn't have left soon enough. It feels like ages that I'm sitting here, listening to their lecture that I was being reckless, that there was no reason for me to volunteer at all, let alone when I am only fifteen. Thankfully for my part, it seems all their yelling has entirely been directly at me and they haven't bothered to start yelling at the Capitol. I'm hoping they can at least refrain from that until it won't affect me one way or another. Even if it's from District One, the Capitol doesn't even want to see a hint of rebellion anymore, and I'm sure our reaping has already turned some heads, and probably not in a good way.

A few minutes pass after the peacekeepers escort them out of the room, and I hear another quick rap at the door before it swings open and Connor is escorted into the room. He makes sure the door is closed before he starts speaking.

" 'Not going to throw Daniel a curveball' you say?" he says, only slightly sarcastically.

"If you're only gonna mock me, you can leave right away. I've gotten enough ridicule from our parents," I snap back, harsher than I intended. "You knew last night that nobody was going to volunteer now, didn't you?"

He cocks his head, "Know isn't the word I'd use certainly, but I'd overheard some of the people you thought were likely talking to Diana for the past week, trying to lure her back into the Games. Seems as if they started to see it her way too, but didn't want to appear to be cowards in front of the academy, so they were hoping that she would return. Can't say I'm surprised to be here with you though. As much as you claim to dislike them now, you can't deny that you bought into the core of loyalty that our parents tried to enlist, didn't you."

I bite my lip. He's always known what my motives were. Even before I'd gotten closer to him recently, he had a knack for it, and not just with me. He'd told me he'd pinned down our parents' motive for the loyalty core, and that's what had even made me start to get close to him, because while he'd basically thrown it aside, he could at least see the point, and provide arguments for why people did things.

"The reaping… Do you think that was deliberate? One last play to get Diana back into the spotlight for certain?" I ask. I fear if that's the case, I may have more to worry about than my parents' little outburst once I get to the Capitol.

"You know as well as I do that I never am able to figure that out," he said. "If you're suggesting it's rigged? While possible, I doubt even if it were true, that there'd little reason to suspect that any other year they'd rig it, not like it'd matter here anyway."

I'd suspected as much of a reply. While he's got ways of finding stuff out, he knows when he'd be going too far for no reward. He's right anyway, it always could be rigged.

"Any last minute advice?" I ask. I know I'd get it anyway, because he'd never have a reason not to.

"One, don't overestimate yourself. Yes, you're gonna be a Career, but you're fifteen. Even some of the outer district tributes might have a strength advantage, so sure, you've trained, but there's nothing saying that it will carry you alone."

He had a point there. I have to make sure to study the reapings as soon as I can just to see who I'm going against. I already know that it's probable that I could be singled out as a weaker link in the Career pack, and I have to do my best to shake that appearance as soon as possible.

"Two, you're gonna have to make sure that it's clear you belong there. After I leave, the story is that you'd been planning to volunteer, but weren't expecting to get a chance this soon, so that's why it took so long."

"But that's not..." I started, before getting instantly interrupted.

"Entirely true? You're right, it's not, but it's what you have to make everyone else believe. I mean, it's not even that unbelievable. Look at Daniel. He went in at 16. That leads to three, though. You're going to have to be less like the person our parents wanted us to be, and more like who I've become. I know what you think; you've told me. A snake, a liar, and even slightly manipulative? You're not wrong, but now you're going to have to be able to be just as much so. Tell yourself it's just for the Games. If you don't, it's going to be an issue sooner rather than later."

Just as he finished saying that, there was a rap at the door, indicating that he was beginning to overstay his welcome. Just as he was about to leave, he quickly glanced around.

"Idiots. Were they so angry that they forgot to give you anything at all?" he said, fiddling around in his pocket, eventually pulling out a bracelet, black and gold, with two items attached to it. I'd noticed a while ago he'd started wearing one of his own around his wrist, along with various other trinkets. Before I knew it, he flung it quickly at me.

"Use this as your token if you like," he said, quickly as he was leaving. "I was planning to give it to you at some point as a gift, but now's as good a time as any. Remember…"

Whatever the end of that sentence was going to be was cut off, as the peacekeepers entered, told him it was time for him to go now, and then informed me that I should be prepared to leave right away.

Before I left, I quickly looked at the black bracelet, and could see that the two beaded items on it were engraved with images of both a snake and a dog, and I made my way to our ride to the Capitol.

* * *

**Tygo Tsukuda**

As they prepared to board the train, he watched Tessa's face, amused.

"Wow. The parents were that bad, huh?" She flushed, but didn't reply.

"Prepare me. How badly does Daniel want to kill you right now?" that time, he got half a smirk out of her, as well as words in return.

"Well, if I hadn't said anything, he probably would have gotten Diana, which is what he wanted all along."

"Diana knows her own limits, Tess. She made the right choice. She knows how to throw a good punch, but she doesn't know when not to. That's what you and I are here for. We're not the biggest or the strongest, but we don't have to be, because we're not senseless. The Careers Daniel wants to create don't know how to feel anything, they're like walking, talking weapons. We need to be something more."

"Tone it down with the preachiness? You can save your pretty speeches for Arsenius, if you really need somewhere to put them."

"Oh, I know somewhere you could stick them." She rolled her eyes, half chuckling. He watched her closely for a moment before continuing, trying to anticipate her responses.

"Well, Tessa Dane, may the best man win." She shook his outstretched hand, one eyebrow raised.

"Whatever you say, Speedy." He winced slightly at her use of the childhood nickname; he was going to have a hard time escaping the fact that he was in a death match against the girl who had grown up just three houses down the street.


	8. District 9 Reaping

**Rufus Aestivum, 16  
District Nine Male  
joefanboy**

* * *

_"Now is the time when men work quietly in the fields and women weep softly in the kitchen; the legislature is in session and no man's property is safe"_

_ – Daniel Webster_

* * *

I rolled out of bed thinking "Ugh, I always hate this day." Same stress every year. I have to get up an hour earlier and get my work done before I have to go to the Justice Hall. As I climb out of bed I look out the window and see the sun slowly starting to come out. I start putting on my clothes and I hear dad start down the stairs.

I slowly get dressed and hear down the stairs. As I get down to the kitchen and see dad brewing our morning coffee, I nod to him as I pull the bread out of the box.

"So today's the day, huh." he said as my toast pops up.

"Yeah" I respond as I start to butter my toast, "That's why I'm up this damn early!"

"Watch your mouth" he quips back "Don't let your mother hear you using that kinda language."

"WHY THE HELL NOT?" I yell back as I slam down my butter knife "WHY DO THEY GET TO DO THIS TO US EVERY FUCKING YEAR?"

"THAT'S ENOUGH!" I was shocked he yelled. He never yells. He coughed a couple times before he continued. "You know it's not fair but it is how it is. It's been this way for years and I don't think it will ever change. Last year you got lucky, you were called but someone else volunteered."

I remember last year. Why did he volunteer? I didn't know Scrye, why did he decided to take my place? Quieter I respond "I'm sorry. I just feel that it's a waste each year when there is so much that needs done." I take a bite of my toast as I watch for a reaction. He coughs again and then takes a sip of his coffee. As I swallow my bite of toast I start again "I mean my name should be less likely to be drawn, it was drawn last year!"

"Yeah, we can hope." He coughs a few more times and I'm worried it got worse because he yelled.

"You should sit down and take it easy. I'm almost done here and will go out and get started." I say as I shove the last bit of my toast into my mouth.

"Yeah I think I am going to do that" He says as he takes a seat. I hear him say something as I walk out the door but didn't hear what. I just want to get the work done, then hopefully going to the reaping at the Justice hall won't be too long.

Today is not only reaping day but it's also harvest time. I drive the combine harvester through the field and it only stops on me twice. I shut it off and pull out the tools to start fixing it. It's old so only stopping twice is a blessing. After a quick fix each time it's back up and running and I finish the field in quick time. It's about 10 AM when I walk in to the kitchen. I look around and mom's not there. As I start looking for her I realize dad never came out to the field. I go searching through the house and as I get closer to my parents room I hear mom talking.

"Claude, you have to rest!"

"I'll be fine Abigail. I have to start getting around. It sounds like Rufus is done in the fields and I have to be there at the reaping." dad responds but he sounds very weak.

I open the door and look at them. Dad is laying on the bed with what looks to be a wet cloth on his head. Mom is sitting next to him and look like she's been crying. "What's going on?" I ask.

"It's nothing, I just felt a little faint this morning" Dad said as mom gets up. "Abigail don't!" he says as he starts to cough again.

"HOW DARE YOU!" she yells as she smacks me, "If I wouldn't have heard the yelling your father could have….." her words just hung there. He could have what I wondered. What is she talking about.

"ABIGAIL!" my father yelled for the second time today. He continued to cough and that got my mom's attention. She rushed over to him got him a drink of water. "He's young Abigail. His anger is justified, he just had it aimed at the wrong person is all. I did the same thing at his age."

"But I could have lost you." I noticed as she says it she is in tears. "What am I going to do if he gets reaped and you..."

"Hush Abi, he doesn't need that added pressure today." He looked over to me "Go get ready Rufus. I'm going to get ready and we will be leaving soon."

I walked out of the room and shut the door most of the way but didn't walk to my room just yet. As I stood there thinking about what they had said mom was the first to speak "Claude, what are we going to do if he gets reaped?"

I hear my dad moving around and he coughs a couple of times. "I don't know Abi. I thought that last year he was gone but then that boy volunteered and we got lucky." I hear moving around as if they are getting dressed so I start to head down to my room. I hear one last comment from mom that sounds like she says dad is sick. What does she mean sick? I sit in my room mulling over it. Dad has been doing less in the field but that's just because he's older. He has me so of course he's going to take it easier. I think back to yesterday when they went into town. They we're gone most of the day, I worked around the farm waiting for them to get home. I apologized to dad when they got home for not getting everything done and he just brushed it off. He told me "You didn't get it all done because I wasn't home to help you." Even with his help I've been doing more then him. He could still handle the fields if I did get reaped, couldn't he? As I'm sitting there there's a knock at my door. "You ready to go Roof?"

"Yeah dad," I sigh. "Please don't call me that."

"Oh sorry," he laughs "I forgot you don't like that name any more."

I laughed "I've never liked it. It sounds like what a dog says."

He looks at me for a min "I remember that's why you used to like it when you were a kid!"

I roll my eyes and just laugh. I start to get up and walk over as he heads out the door. We get down to the kitchen and mom is sitting there in one of her summer dresses. My dad whistles at her and as she laughs at him he starts to cough. "Claude are you sure you should go?"

He glares at her and responds "Of course Abi, I can't miss it." He looks at me and after a few more coughs says "Ready to go sport?"

I nod and we all start heading out the door. As we walk out I take a quick look around at the farm. I know I should be taking it all in just in case I get reaped but all I can think of it all the work that got put off today. Tomorrow is going to suck. There's a lot I still need to do.

We all pile into the 3 seat beat up truck and drive the 20 mins to town square after a quick discussion about me driving myself that got shot down. It's a quiet ride, I think my mom is still pissed at me. For what I still can't figure out. After we get there we say our goodbyes at the door as I get ready to walk in. Mom give me a quick hug and kiss as she's crying. Dad says he'll see me in a bit once it's all done.

I do the quick check in and I walk in to the staging area and see a sea of other kids. Younger ones staying together looking scared while older ones looking confident because it's there last time here. I walk into the crowd and see some of the kids I know. As I stand there looking around Peacekeepers start to file onto the stage. I notice there are quite a few around us, it seems like more than last year. After they file on stage I notice tall man walk on to the stage where the mayor is as well as Ceres Tachibana and Caramel Nazario, the two previous winners for District Nine. He's built, looks strong as hell. He is also way too cheerful to be sending kids to their death each year.

"Greetings everyone. Welcome to the 93rd reaping for District Nine! It's my great pleasure to be back in District Nine! Every year I come here, the very first things I see are the long golden fields! It's unlike anything else you'll find anywhere else in the country..." He rambles on a little like he usually does. "Today two lucky souls will have the chance at fame and fortune. The rest of you will go on with your boring lives working." As he says it some of the younger ones cry a little. Older kids scoff at it knowing they'll be happy with their "boring" lives as long as they get to survive. "As many of you know my name is Fletcher, I'm one of your hosts for this event. I know normally we start without young ladies, but today I thought we might mix it up a little!" As he says it he picks up a giant bowl about half filled with slips of paper. He swishes around a bit and then sits it back down. "So lets just get on with it. This years male going in to the games is." He reaches his and in moving quite a few around and after what seems like an hour pulls out a slip. He slowly opens it and gets wide eyed. "Now isn't that exciting! This years male is Rufus Aestivum!"

As he says it my jaw drops. How? I was called last year. I notice Peacekeepers start walking to me and I start to look around. Someone volunteered last year, surely someone will this year as well. "Fate wants you in the games my friend." Fletcher's voice booms as I'm still looking around. "Such an honor to be drawn 2 years in a row." The Peacekeepers draw ever closer and Fletcher continues to talk. I'm not looking around in a panic, why hasn't someone volunteered yet? As the Peacekeepers grab my arm I hear someone call out someone else's name. Was it another male volunteering for me? No, I think it was a female's name. I look around and see Peacekeepers heading over to the other side on the area. I suddenly feel the Peacekeeper holding my arm pulling me and I go to yank away. Then there's a hard slam to the back of my head, it hurt. I suddenly feel myself being dragged along. Next thing I feel is the Peacekeepers picking me up and carrying me as I blackout. My last thought is what if my dad is going to die and I'm not there? What happens to mom?

I don't know how long I was out but I wake up in a hallway I've never seen before. I slowly sit up and my head is killing me. Fletcher is there "Oh, you're awake! Good." He hands my a glass of water "Not sure why you tried to fight the Peacekeepers…"

"I didn't fight them!" I interrupt. "I was just trying to pull away so I could walk up myself." I glare at him as I say it.

"Well, how well did that go for you?" He just keeps looking at me "You should drink some of the water, I promise it's not poisoned." I look down at the glass and realize how thirsty I am. I look back to him for a second "Have it your way and don't." I slowly put the glass to my lips and take a drink. Shockingly it's cold and very refreshing. "There, isn't that better?"

"So, what happens now" I quickly say. "Do I get to at least say goodbye to my parents?"

He suddenly looks very somber. "Well yes, kinda." I must have looked confused because he brightens up a little "Your dad is just outside and is waiting to come in. Unfortunately I'm not sure the Peacekeepers will allow both of them to come in so your dad said he would come in." He looks sad again, I'm not sure why. "I'll go see if he's able to come in yet." He slowly walks out the door and leaves me to sit there alone. While he's gone I reach to the back of my head and feel the biggest lump I've felt since I was a child.

While I sit there thinking about what my pain I start to wonder what my parents are going to do while dad comes throught the door. "Oh Rufus, are you ok?" I see a Peacekeeper walking in behind him. I look back at dad, why does he look week? Is it from the fact the he's obviously been crying?

"I'm fine dad." I lie. He shakes his head as I start to get up. "I think the headache might be the least of my worries." I hear a little commotion down the hall and I look down that way.

"So do you have any plan?" dad suddenly looks very serious. I shake my head and he looks down. "Well I have faith in you, I know your strong and smart." He suddenly reaches into his pocket. "I have brought this every year and I was hoping to give it to you after you were beyond the age of reaping but I guess it's a good thing I have it." He pulls out a pocket watch that I haven't seen since I was maybe 5 or 6. As he hands it to me he says. "This was your great grandfathers. My father gave it to me after I was too old to be reaped. He said his father gave it to him after he was too old. I guess that chain has been broken." He suddenly has a few tears welling up in his eyes and as he goes to wipe them out he starts coughing.

I catch him as he starts to fall over and help him to a nearby chair. "Dad are you ok?" He has trouble breathing and I look at the Peacekeeper "Can't you go and get someone?"

He looks at me and says "That's not my job but I'll go talk to the woman he was with." He walks out the door and leave my dad there.

"Roof, I need to tell you something." His breathing gets more ragged. As I try to tell him to relax he says "Rufus this is important." I stop talking and he continues "I don't mean to give you more pressure but you need to win and come back to your mom."

I'm in shock at what he said. What does he mean come back to mom? "Don't worry dad, I'm coming back to both of you."

He coughs a few more times and says "No, Roof you don't understand. Your all she's going to have. I'm dying Roof. The doc said yesterday I don't have much longer." I'm floored by the information.

"What do you mean?" I ask as tears start to stream down my face. "You're going to be fine!"

He's breathing heavier and he suddenly looks very frail "Roof, I'm not. They're not sure what it is but my body is starting to fail. Your mom is going to need you to take care of things." He starts coughing really bad as the Peacekeeper comes in with mom and Fletcher. Mom runs over to him as Fletcher comes over to me. She slowly starts to check on him and looks back at me and says "What did you say to him?" As she turns back he say "Abi it wasn't him. I got worked up and I told him."

As I look befuddled. Fletcher says to me "Come on champ, it's time to go." I try to say no that I want to stay with my dad as the Peacekeeper grabs my arm. Fletcher looks at him and says "That's not going to be needed," he looks back to me "right?"

I look at him and back to my dad as mom starts to help him up. I look down and start walking with Fletcher, "No." As I'm walking I hear dad say "Abi, he is going to come home to you. He knows how much you're going to need him." I say bye quickly as I hear her say "I hope so Claude, I really do." I walk away and as they lead me to another room I just can't help but wonder, what will happen to mom if I don't come back.

* * *

**Ember Lightcliffe, 17  
District Nine Female  
****AlexFalTon**

* * *

"_I suspect it may be like the difference between a drinker and an alcoholic; the one merely reads books, the other needs books to make it through the day,_"

\- Gail Carriger

* * *

I was imagining a world called Middle-Earth, it's from a pre-Panem book called _Lord of the Rings_. I wonder what it's like to live there. Tolkien, a man who's work has survived for so long, made a world perfect for adventure. It was a good read - from start to finish. Yet, it's but a story. A story of good against evil - yet I know the world doesn't work like that.

No doubt the Capitol is evil, with its authoritarian ways of bringing the twelve districts down, but do they see it that way? I close her eyes. She imagines life as a Capitolite. If I were one of them, I'd be afraid of what would happen if the districts were to turn once more. I had a very wealthy life. Or better than most. I don't want it to go away. And if the districts rebelled against the Capitol, what would happen? What would happen if they win? Well, my riches and power would be 'taken' from me. In that case, so that my wealth and way of life stay, the districts must be brought down low.

At least, that's how I imagine how the average Capitolite thinks.

"Ember, sweetheart. Your eggs are getting cold, eat up," I hear my sweet mother's voice, and got me out of her reflective thinking.

I saw my mother cooking extra for herself - dad also wakes up the morning for work - and I find my mother's presence a calming force. Family tends to be that. After all, who else is there to rely on if not those of blood relations? I quickly think of other conventional circumstances of trusting others, such as uncles/aunts or being orphans, but while I can imagine it, I can't live it. Her mother then asked:

"Are you in your deep thoughts again? You do this every year," she says, sounding saddened by it. "You're not going to get chosen, pumpkin. It's a one in a million chance after all."

She's talking about the Reaping's, of course.

"Mom, sometimes, it's not about being chosen, it's about this being a tradition in the first place," I said, taking a bite of my eggs. "Have you ever felt that way? Back when you were my age."

"Every day," mom admitted. "It's whelming and frightened even now." _Because of me._ "Same as it's always been. District Twelve has been this way. And Nine isn't any different. I suppose only the career districts have any luxury of not worrying."

"Lucky them," I stated, but I couldn't keep the distaste out. I can name many good reasons to volunteer, but careers are becoming more bloodthirsty and glory-seeking idiots each year. That's something I can't condone. Killing for the sake of killing, which many like myself seem to think of the Capitol loving career districts.

Mom looked at me, exhausted. "What can _we_ do, Ember? It's not like we haven't tried."

I grimaced. The Mockingjay Rebellion. It ended before I was born, but still fresh on my parents and, I suppose, everyone in their generation. "Hey, mom. Do you remember Katniss Everdeen?"

She frowned at the subject. "Yes, I remember seeing her. I remember seeing her volunteer. It seemed like a small thing to everyone, but to us, it was a first. And Katniss volunteered for the best reason I can think of for going to a murder game," mom sighed. "She seemed so brave at the time. By that, I mean, she was still scared. You can see it in her eyes, but she volunteered, and that took courage that no one else had in Twelve."

"So, you never talked with her?" I asked curiously.

"Pfft. Sure, I've seen her before she made her mark, but we never talked. Everyone always thought she was rather recluse, and would still be if she..." mom stopped there.

_If she won,_ I finished. Today's most popular 'what-if'. If only the Mockingjay rebels won, what would Panem be like today? It's a good question. Something I can't possibly answer.

"So, how's that book coming along?" Mom said, trying to change the subject. "The ones you got from the Icewings." Those are our neighbors. They're nice people who gave me books from the days of Pre-Panem. Also, it's apparent to everyone that their last names aren't 'Icewing' but it's not a bad name. They probably got it from a book somewhere.

They also have a kid named Zyger. I'd probably have been friends with him if he wasn't a decade younger than me.

_Can I make friends?_ I thought. It's a bit challenging for me to do. And I'm considered a social outcast from everyone my age, so I don't even know if it's possible for me.

"The book is awesome mom," I answered with a smile. Mom didn't press further, and I didn't bother her over any fantastical details Lord of the Rings have.

Anyway, it was getting to the time where I had to go to the Reaping.

No one can be late for that, or else.

My bid my mother farewell. She gave me a reassuring hug before I left.

I don't leave the house that often. Not unless I need to do chores or help dad with his farm. _I'm not all that interesting_, I realize._ I'm just a bookworm. _I pray to whatever lost diety that I won't be the one reaped.

On the road, I see others walking towards the town hall. It's where the Reaping takes place. I see two girls walking in front of me, giggling. I felt a pang of envy. Nothing to see. Nothing to be _jealous_ of.

I glared at them. Those two aren't real friends. Would one volunteer if one gets chosen? I know I wouldn't. I know others won't or haven't. What's the point of having friends if they'd just leave you to die?

Rubbing my right arm, I kept walking and not looking at the two idiot girls.

There used to be someone I called a _friend_. Of course, I was an idiot too. She left me to die at first notice I was on fire. My arm got severely burned that day.

The day I stopped having friends.

I don't need any. Family is good enough for me. There's no one else to count on but the ones who raised me.

Well, still. Here's hoping I won't get chosen.

I find my way to the section roped off for the other seventeen-year-old girls, coming into the back of the group. The Mayor stood up on the stage, whispering to Ceres Tachibana and Caramel Nazario, Nine's two Victors.

It doesn't take long for our escort, Fletcher Friendly, to take the stage. Most Capitol names are weird in and of themselves, but Friendly? Who's named Friendly?

"Hello, hello, hello!" Friendly calls as he steps up to the microphone. "It's my great pleasure to be back in District Nine! Every year I come here, the very first things I see are the long golden fields! It's unlike anything else you'll find anywhere else in the country..."

Friendly continued, but I tuned him out. Every year he liked to talk out ears off about Nine. After you've heard him enough times, it all started to get repetitive. Eighteen years of hearing him talk about Nine, and I guess what he was going to say next.

"I know normally we start without young ladies, but today I thought we might mix it up a little!" Friendly declared, clapping his hands together. "So, let's get out lucky young man first!"

He picked out a name, and I didn't pay attention to whatever poor sap got picked.

"So it seems we have a man of few words, eh folks? Now onto our lucky young ladies!" he called out. Now I was paying attention. Friendly moved and picked out a piece of paper.

I prayed it wasn't me.

"Ember Lightcliffe! Come on out!"

My prayer screwed me over.

* * *

"_EMBER_! Sweety, oh god why! Why?!" Mom screamed at no-one as she hugged me desperately. It's as if it's going to be the last time she'll ever get the chance. Which, to be fair, is most likely the case.

I'm going to the Hunger Games.

I am so _fucking_ dead.

There's no reason not to hug mom more tightly than I ever had in my life. I'm completely terrified right now. And the panic has spread throughout the room.

We are all in the Justice Building. Me, sitting in this one chair. Mom, hugging me. Dad, rubbing his hand on his face.

Dad was trying his best not to cry, but his eyes are as red and wet as the rest of his family. "Dam it," he cursed. He moved around, looking scared and frustrated. The way I always imagined a powerless parent to be when there where other kids in this very room. "Alright. Alright. Ember, everything is going to be alright."

His reassurance means jackshit right now. Having a 1/24 chance of is pretty bad. Worse when there are trained killers known as careers in the mix.

"Darling, you're not helping," my mom said, she sounded better, more clam than she did a few seconds ago.

"Amanda, she nee-"

"That's not what she needs to hear," she interrupted. "Not false words. No, we need to give her _real_ advice. Ember," my mom addressed. "You know that your father and I came from Twelve." I nodded, wondering where she was going with this. "When we escaped Twelve during the Rebellion, we were lucky. We used to pity, we used the fact that I was pregnant with you as comfort and safe passage. _Your father killed a peacekeeper to keep us safe_," mom whispered that last part, and dad looked uncomfortable. "We stole, we lied sometimes, but we made it here. Somewhere safer because of it."

"So I should do that same," I said.

Oddly enough, it's reassuring to me. To hear about the skeleton in my family's closet.

"Yes, you do whatever it takes," she replied, her arms were still around me.

Dad came by, looking at me, "We don't care what you have to do. We just want you back here."

The Peacekeeper came by.

"Your goodbye is over and done with. Come on."

I got up from my seat and hugged my parents one more time. I was lead out after.

_Do whatever it takes,_ I think to myself and I repeated it in my head. _Do whatever it takes to win the Hunger Games. That's the way to win._


	9. District 2 Reaping

**Augusta Rose, 18  
****District 2 Female  
****jess0193**

My alarm goes off quietly at 3am, just like it does every other morning. I've trained myself to be an incredibly light sleeper since my uncle Claudius started training me a year ago. Every day but Sunday, I woke up at 3am, sneak out of the house and run to our makeshift training center in the mountains, far away from anyone. All of that training led to today, reaping day. Training and running every morning has become my way to release the stress of my family and life. It's my "me" time. Today is no different, perhaps even more so. I turn off the alarm, slip quietly out of bed already dressed in black leggings and a black tank top so it's harder for someone who may be out to see me. I put the barrette Claudius gave me in my hair, slide my window open, step onto the roof, close the window and jump into the tree and gently fall to the ground. Now it's time to run.

As I run the 3 miles to the training site, I'm trying to calm the adrenaline that is pumping through my veins. I can feel my pace is a lot faster than usual, but I know I need to save my energy. I'm going to need it to face not only today, but the days that follow. It's a great morning for running, with the air getting cooler as I run up the mountain. I reach the site and see that I beat Claudius here again. I breathe heavily and drink some water while I wait, finally letting myself think about what's to come. I get lost in my thoughts and jump when Claudius says my name.

"Augusta! Did you not hear me come up?"

"No, sorry. I was thinking."

"You're going to have to watch that Augs. It will get you in trouble." Claudius has called me Augs my whole life. I normally do not like pet names, but from him I don't mind.

"I'll be fine."

"Big day today. You're ready though."

"I'm going to have to be." I sigh heavily.

"Let's start training, give yourself a chance to think about something else."

Music to my ears.

When Claudius and I started training, I had no clue what I was doing with a sword as it was not my first choice. However, swords are the least popular weapon used at the Academy, with most opting for more...advanced weapons. Since we were training in secrecy, swords were all I was given. I was skeptical at first as the weight and distribution of the sword felt heavy and awkward, but I quickly learned that the sword is underestimated, just like me. Wielding a sword takes quickness, precision, yet offers a defense that few other weapons can give. It's all about physics, something I happen to be very good at. It was tough at first, but Claudius is one of the best trainers at the Academy, training the last winner that came from District 2. Within the last few months, I've defeated him in every fight though, something even he can't hide his awe for. We normally train for 3 hours each morning. Today we train for only 1.5 hours since we both need to get back and get ready for the ceremony. We run back to town together in silence. When we get to my house, Claudius pulls me in a bear hug like he used to do when I was a child. "Remember who you are Augs, always."

He runs off and I climb the tree and slide back into my room. I hop in the shower and let the warm water run over me for a few minutes more than usual. I go to my vanity after putting my sweats on and look at all the hair products and makeup my mom has purchased for me over the years. I've always been told I'm beautiful, something my mom takes great pride in. She buys me all the latest and greatest products and tools money can buy. Since money has never been an issue, I get it all. Her vanity for looks is nauseating. I hear the door open and my mom steps in. She's ready to go and has come to help me get ready. I let her, knowing it will be the last time for a while. She goes to my closet and picks out a bright red dress with black pumps. It's a ridiculous outfit for a ceremony like this I think, but it does look good on me.

"Oh Augusta, you will look so good in this outfit. Everyone will talking about it." My mom says as she holds the dress against me.

"I'm not going to wear the heels Mom."

"Wait, why? You've never refused a good pair of pumps before." She says suspiciously. I can't wear pumps, it will be make it difficult to get to the stage first. She doesn't know about my plan, and now is not the time to let something slip.

"Mom. The dress is great, but how about I wear my sneakers first and then wear the pumps? We'll be doing a bit of walking to the ceremony and I don't want to break an ankle. I wouldn't be able to wear the pumps again anyway if that happens." I say trying to brush off her suspicion.

"Hmmm. Perhaps you're right darling. Okay. Let's fix your hair and makeup."

She starts doing my hair and in no time, it's perfectly placed in a half up/half down hairdo with my makeup perfectly done. I look like a clown, but I don't object, knowing it's all part of the show.

As we head to the ceremony, my mom and dad are happily talking about the reaping. Dad is going on about the kids he knows are going to volunteer and how great they are going to do. My blood starts to boil as I sit there in silence listening to their excitement. My dad never gave me a chance to be anything. I'm a pretty face and that's all I am to him. My whole life I've been trying to prove myself and my worth, and it's gotten me nowhere with him. I'm invisible unless he needs me to charm one of the other elite families. He clearly wishes that one of the other kids that will volunteer was his child the way he talks about them. Better yet, he wishes I was a boy, and since he never had a son of his own, he is perpetually disappointed in me. We get to the square and I part from them, finding my friend Aurora in the crowd. Finally the ceremony starts. My heart is pounding as we get closer to the names being read. After what feels like an hour, I hear the words "ladies first" and see a perfectly manicured hand reach into the bucket of names. Hadriana Halifax starts to read a name that isn't mine, but before she even finishes the last name, I scream "I volunteer as tribute!"

All heads turn towards me, utter disbelief written all over their faces. Everyone knows who I am, but no one would have ever guessed I would have volunteered. I was not one of the chosen careers and consistently was given low scores at the academy. I don't care about any face but one and scan the crowd until I find it. My dad's mouth is tight and scrunched, his eyes narrowed. This is a look I know all too well, and it's usually never a good thing to be on the receiving end of it. Today though, I welcome that look and I smirk at him as I walk up to the stage. No one moves or says anything for a few seconds, so I reach over and say into the ear of Hadriana, "Shouldn't we select the male tribute now?" As if startled, she shakes it off and reaches into the bucket of male names. She pulls one out and reads a name, but I see Cadmus practically walking up the stairs before he even volunteers. Oh great, I think. Cadmus is well known for hating women. He wouldn't even shake my hand or look at me when we were both on stage. This will be fun, I think sarcastically to myself. Before I know it two peace keepers are guiding me to a room. Within seconds the door slams open and I hear my father arguing with someone outside of the room as my mother comes in.

"What is the meaning of this?" My father storms into the room and asks. Fury blazing in his eyes.

"I volunteered."

"I don't need your smart mouth. I'm going to get you out of this. This is ridiculous."

"Dad, I volunteered. You know the rules better than anyone. I want to do this."

"You're going to get killed."

"You don't know that."

"I do know that. You're weak and you'll embarrass the whole family. You're a disgrace." He looks like he is about to slap me when Claudius grabs his arm.

"That's enough. It's time for Augusta to go." Claudius says.

My father looks at me one last time and stomps out of the room. My mother is shocked and hasn't moved since she walked in the room. Seeing Claudius, she shakes out of it. She comes over and pulls me into a hug, "Prove your father wrong. Please Augusta, come back." She whispers in my ear as I feel a single tear fall onto my neck. Before I can say anything, I'm being taken away by those Peace Keepers with Claudius trailing close behind. He stops me before I get on the train and gives me one last bear hug.

"I'm so proud of you Augusta." He says in a rare break of his tough exterior.

Tears well up in my eyes. No one has ever said that to me before. But it's all I need.

* * *

**Cadmus Gneiss, 18  
****District Two Male  
****Nrrrd-Grrrl-Meg**

* * *

"_The best or nothing at all."  
__-Gottlieb Daimler_

* * *

My days begin long before the sun even dreams of rising.

With only the moonlight as my guide and the hood of my Training Academy jacket up, I leave the Training Academy, using the rhythm of my steps and the pumping of my heart as the soundtrack that fuels me. It carries me across our large town center and the accompanying Justice Center, passed the quarries owned by my family for generations (and the ones owned by those hold-outs that my grandfather failed to monopolize), and up into mountains before taking a rest to watch the sun rise. Instinctively, I place my hand on my heart and let it pound into my palm as a smile breaks through my lips.

_Today is the day, Tiberius._

Twenty push ups later and I am back on track, following the trail I had just came from. The same trail that he took daily, every day until the morning he volunteered. He would wave as he passed our home, even taking me once or twice for small stretches of it on days when I wasn't bedridden. I half expect to see a frail, pathetic child when I go around my former home, but instead find it as still as it ever was. Father, more likely than not, has left for a morning of meetings before my big day, while Mother was most likely still in a drunken slumber. Most likely neither would be there to see my off, but it's for the best.

He never wanted a Victor as a son anyway.

Magnus was supposed to take over the family business; he was intelligent, savvy, and easily manipulated by our father. However, he saw what the business has done to our family in the past and opted out, training to be a Peacekeeper instead and now roams the ranches and slaughter houses of District Ten. Father skipped over the twins, since he knew he couldn't change Tiberius's mind when it came to volunteering at age 18 and his twin, well, she was a woman, so we couldn't have that. Besides, she volunteered the year before he did, fearing going into the games the same year as him and was quickly dispatched with by the walking muscle from One, Roy Harbinger. She was weak, pathetic, nothing like her twin. It was Tiberius that was supposed to bring honor to our family and end all the talk of the curse surrounding the Gneiss name.

Now I am all that's left.

Father has another heir in the form of Atticus, if he bothers to look for him. Mother likes to act like Father's mistake doesn't exist, but that hasn't stopped his mother from bringing him around all his life, wanting Atticus to be raised with his half-siblings. Father says he brings shame to the family, but the only shame I see is Atticus' mother, for parading him around and looking for a handout. It almost makes me laugh.

Almost.

By the time the sun begins to rise, I am back in the main hub of the Academy, with my pupils lined up in nice rows of four. Twenty children, a mixture of genders and backgrounds, looked up at me with a mixture of wonder and terror, ready to learn different ways to kill their fellow tributes. I am hard on them, giving them not a single ounce of leniency due to their age, and in the end, they will respect me more for it.

_Ne__ver__ coddle the child, for they will never learn _as Father always said.

"No, no, no!" I snatch the spear from little Lancel's hand, as he aims for his sparing partner's legs. "While it is good to incapacitate your victim, if you have the chance to go for the kill, you take it. Again!"

He is slow, pudgy, and hesitant, unworthy of such an opportunity here at the Academy. The youngest brat of Mayor Rhodes, he is only here as a babysitter of sorts, not because he has any chance of going into the games. If he was our only hope, I'd rather some poor, swollen-bellied child from Twelve take home the victory.

Pathetic.

"Again!" The boy is almost in tears now, as he aims for the girl's head, bumping the blunted weapon off the back of her head as she tried to run away and knocking her over. "She's still moving, go for the kill!"

He drives the spear hard just inches from the girl's tear-covered face, finally showing some of the killer instinct I have been drilling into him for months now. The others watch wide-eyed and in silence, taking in the lesson and, hopefully, putting it to memory. It was this training at their age that started me on the path that I am on now. No one took it easy on me due to my illness, nor the fact that I was supposed to be mourning my brother. Had they done so, I would be as pitiful and inadequate as the girl weeping on the floor in front of me.

"Get a shower!" I bark at the girl, who doesn't look back as she scampers off. I turn to face my students, some of whom look as if they could run off like the girl had. "No one will take it easy on you in the games. The Career Pack and District loyalty only get you so far. Janus!" A mop of red curls turns and faces me. "What happened to the Career Pack in the 83rd Games?"

He visibly gulps, almost unsure of it he should answer and only does so after I nod reassuringly. "District One cut ties with the Career Pack almost imminently, sir. They slaughtered their allies not long after the Bloodbath and went their separate ways. This allowed the male to win the games. I'm sorry for your loss-"

"My sister went into the games blindly and foolishly," I snap, causing a few of the children to jump. "Like most women, she had no business being in the arena. She tried to upstage her brother, volunteering a year before he was scheduled to and was forgotten soon enough. People never remember the names of those that fall, only the victors that came out strong! Remember that as you find yourself raising your hand eight years from now. Do you want to be forgotten or praised like a God?"

"LIKE A GOD!" They shout in unison.

"That's what I want to hear," I praise them, giving them just the slightest bit on encouragement before sending them off. "I expect to see you all in your best when I walk past you in two hours. If your name is chosen and you give off even the slightest _hint_ of fear, I will make damn sure you are doing thrusts and pull ups until I return. Do you understand me?"

"YES SIR!"

"Go!"

They do not skip a beat as they rush the exit, their voices a jumbled mess as they leave for home. Not a single one stays to get in some extra training time, making me fear for the future of our trained tributes. With the exception of one or two, they all see this as something they are forced to suffer through, just to make mommy and daddy proud. There is no pride in their work, no willingness to learn what it takes to be the absolute best, not like it was in my first year. I started, being barely able to hold a claymore and finished my first year disarming the other students in minutes. These children have learned little in the months since I took over this class.

Makes me want to vomit.

It doesn't take me long to scrub the sweat and quarry dust from my body and change into the same Reaping outfit I've had for the past few years; dark slacks and my leather Training Academy jacket. It's just a quick jog over and within a half hour of watching my students leave, I am in the last pen, arms folded and ready to go. Slowly, the pens begin to fill in and the usual crowd enters the stage, taking their rightful places. First to hit the stage is Kaia Amity, our first victor since rebellion, a loner that went against everything the Careers stood for and won on a fluke. After her win, I stopped caring – another female representing this great district of ours is something I cannot stand by. Then another one came and it was just too much for me to take. This district needs a real victor, not a bunch of ladies that got lucky. At least I could respect Enobaria; she was vicious and cruel, tearing through the flesh of the boy from Ten with her teeth, sending the Capitol into a frenzy. She might be inferior, but at least she's got bite.

I almost chuckle at my own joke.

"This is your year, Gneiss," Evander Rhodes slaps me on the back in congratulations, but I just glare at him until he wipes his goofy smirk off of his lips. "If anyone is going to get us out of this funk, it's you."

"Of course," I agree, now showing my own teeth.

"You can't do any worse than your brother, right?" he laughs, slapping me on the back once again. "Sliced down by some crybaby from Five, that's gotta hurt."

"My brother's death is of no concern to you, Junior Mayor," he winces at the last part; Evander hates his father and his status in this district. "Thanks to being next in line, you can train and train and train all you want, knowing that you'll never have to worry about actually using it in the arena. The Academy is just daddy's expensive babysitter."

As his little friends shuffle their feet uncomfortably, I continue, only lower and closer to his ear. "Your brother's form a bit weak, could you please stop training him off the clock and let him learn from someone with an actual chance at becoming a victor?"

For a moment, he looks as if he's going to belt me one, but instead he shrugs if off and walks away, taking his goon squad with him. Other boys our age fill the gap between us and the confrontation is quickly forgotten about in preparation for better news. On stage, Evander's father begins his speak, sputtering a bit as he makes his way through. It's easy to see where his sons get their passive personalities from as he continues, losing more and more of the crowd as he stumbles along. I take a sly glance over at Evander and reveal in the fact that he looks uncomfortable.

Good...that will teach him not to crack jokes about things he doesn't know.

Tiberius was gone, that much is true. He went into the games strong, feeding off of and learning from the mistakes his sister made, and made his intentions known quickly. The torture of the smaller tributes made him not only fascinating to watch, but also a pariah in both the Capitol and back home, where people with no business judging opened their fat mouths to pass their thoughts about him and our family to whomever would listen. Still, those with any brains ate up what he did, realizing he was giving the masses exactly what they wanted; a show. I watched what I could that year from my hospital bed, having been hospitalized just hours after he jogged his way up to the stage, but was forced to turn it off as it was throwing off my heart monitor. To this day, I have not seen what happened to my brother, but I know the outcome of it.

His heart was used to bring me back to life.

On instinct, my hand was there, listening to my brother and it bumped against my palm. Still with me, still guiding me along as I train, knowing that I will not fall the way that he did. His death was painful, but at it allowed me to live and if it takes everything in me, I will make him proud of me.

"Our first District Two tribute headed into the 93rd Annual Hungers games is..."

With her thin, almost rubbery arms, Hadriana Halifax she plucked the name from the large bowl, only to drop it and pick another one instead. She was the type to take on the look and personality of the last female victor Panem has and it seems that she is now mimicking the look and attitude of the bimbo from Four that won last year. She toyed with us a few more times before sticking with one, calling it out loudly over the hushed crowd.

"JEZEBEL STONE!"

The name meant nothing, as everyone knew a girl would come charging from the back at any moment. Last I heard, it was some seventeen year old the Academy picked, Evangelina something-or-other, but it wasn't she that made her way towards the stage. Instead, it was the niece of my first trainer, the man that taught me to hold a sword. She's beautiful, that much was for certain, and if trained by him, she could give some of the others a run for their money. However, she had the flaw of being born the wrong gender and for that, she will not be coming back to this District alive. I hope her uncle is ready to have her blood on his hands.

"And now, for the boys..." she tries to pull the same stunt with the cards this time, but Mayor Rhodes politely nudges her along. "ONYX DENVIR!"

Once again, there is silence over the younger pens, with not even a hint as to where the boy by the name was. Not that it mattered, really. I made my way up towards the stage with little effort, making sure to look behind me in case one of the other guys my age decided to break Academy Code and go into the games instead. Within moments, Hadriana was pushing for her _lovely tributes_ to shake hands, but I just scoff, refusing to belittle myself by taking her hand as if solidarity meant something. Before long, I am escorted to the Justice Center to wait out my time before the train comes for us.

No one visits and I'm not surprised. No need to say goodbye when I'm coming back in a few weeks anyway.


	10. District 3 Reaping

**Pixelle Fitzgerald, 16  
District Three Female  
andii99**

To the untrained eye, the minute differences in the cellular structure shown in the rendering I hold in my hand, would be nigh on impossible to notice. Referring back to the previous renderings of the subject's brain, I could jump for joy: My efforts, however, are redirected into dilligently recording every deviation between the multiple instances of neuroimaging.

A shadow previously noted in the amygdala has receded somewhat, and I cannot help but laugh aloud. The chemical compound I have been developing arduously since the completion of my PSC, Panem Studium Ceritficate, in Biochemistry is finally yielding favourable results. And to think it all began as a 'side project 'of sorts, and one that didn't align with my post-study aspirations.

Fresh from my days as a student here at the Studium, I was almost naïve in my desire to make a 'difference'. Create an anti-serum that could cure the most malignant of afflictions, or potentially solve one of the quandaries that have plagued the scientific communities long before Panem became established in the 'New World'.

Instead I was allocated the task of creating a non-intrusive means of solving the 'surprising increase in psychological and neurological disorders becoming prevalent in the Capitol'. If I were one to favour sardonic wit, I'd say that any abnormalities observed originated with the absurd amount of chemicals they ingest or use to alter various aspects of their 'natural state'. But, being a fourteen year old possessing a Doctorate, I was determined to 'prove myself' and leapt at any opportunity to work in the 'field' or at least something that was not solely theoretical in nature.

It was the proverbial wet dream of a science graduate, funding from the Capitol that was pretty much without limits and access to substances I had only ever read about in the dusty journals in the Archives. It was overwhelming, but I have been determined to have my findings published and later housed in the acclaimed Studium Archives for as long as I can remember. This iron will, and my youthful optimism, led to the development of my first 'success': A concoction of sorts that stimulated the hippocampus and prefrontal cortex to improve the processing and retention of information, and sharpen the focus of the consumer.

This was later sold as a discrete means to improve the supposed academic failings in the Capitol Educational System. I received priceless recognition amongst the 'elite' of the technological District, and while most of the monetary compensation for my efforts was absorbed back into the Studium and its various beneficiaries. I was afforded the luxury of describing my own, and by extension my parents', financial status as 'comfortable'.

But I did not pursue a career is science to simply benefit from a project and move on, I had initially set out to find a way of treating a plethora of issues that affect Panem in its entirety- as hopelessly wishful as my thinking may have been, this premise had the potential to revolutionise the treatment of mental illness: It is well known that that the suicide rate in District Three is one of the largest across Panem, with such pressure put on young people to excel in difficult fields.

If the compound could be mass-manufactured, well the possibilities are extensive: for most of my waking moments, my mind has been alarmingly fixated on this conundrum. And I am finally seeing results that indicate this hard work has paid off. Some may label me a narcassist, but it is not all about being published or recognition: I've always wanted to make a difference.

"D-Dr F-fitzgerald?"

My internal musing is cut short, Linus Estrella, who wields his stutter as a weapon against my capabilities to concentrate. With his ebony locks, pasty complexion and habit of chewing his lower lip; he could be considered the 'typical' District Three citizen. But his mere presence at the Studium nullifies that assumption. He belongs in the top percentile, those who have been deemed prodigal in their field and capability to 'make worthwhile contributions towards the betterment of Panem', and permitted to study at the Studium.

So while I have no doubts that Linus Estrella possesses a brilliant mind, his social skills make me appear as a savant of the social arts. And I have been described as 'socially inept', or 'plain awkward', throughout my tenure at the educational institution. My eyes remain fixated on the complex formulae that I've poured hours of research into, I take a deep breath and pinch the bridge of my nose before turning to the hapless Lab Assistant.

"Linus, I have told you more time than I care to recall that this is a sensitive project, and you are not to enter my personal laboratory without the express permission of myself, Dr. Synapse or a delegate from the board of Governors."

Despite him being three years my senior, my voice carries the quiet authority that belies my elevated position within the social hierarchy within the Studium. If I were a sadist, his reaction would please me: His cerulean eyes widening comically as he teases his lower lip with his teeth. His eyes wonder around the spacious laboratory before finding the floor. It has always irked me, this absurd fascination that humans have for pointedly staring at the ground. It's highly improbable that Linus will find a suitable response etched into the polished floors.

"I-I kn-know Dr, it's j-just..."

He trails off and I see the beginnings of tears forming in the corners of his wide eyes. He looks as though he wants to take a running start and leap from the window to the slate grey cobbles of the streets below. In laymen's terms, he looks lost and I silently berate myself for being as short with the fragile student. It's a habit of mine that I am not proud of, exerting my authority over others to compensate for my evident youth.

Attempting to remedy the situation, I recall the few tomes I had read pertaining to Human Psychology and try to arrange my features into a welcoming expression: Widening my eyes, smiling widely while showing my teeth and adopting a relaxed posture with the palms of my hands clearly visible. Unfortunately, the desired effect isn't the actuality: Linus' eyes, miraculously widen further, and he takes a deliberate step backwards. Never one to give up, I press forward.

"My apologies Linus, what is it that I can help you with?"

I deliberately soften my voice to appear more soothing and personable, but the young student continues to fidget restlessly. Teasing his lower lip, he opens his mouth and I nod encouragingly. Silently pleading for him to hurry up with whatever he is here for, so I can get back to my research.

"I h'have tried to c-contact you on the c-comm-link-"

I remember the incessant buzzing that had sporadically disturbed me while in the throws of research, I also remember hastily turning it off as I chose to isolate myself with nothing more than formula and scientific principles as my company: Like I have so many times before.

"-so basically, if y-you don't leave now,you w-won't arrive at the square before the Reaping Ceremony c-commences."

The effect of his declaration is immediate, the anxious clenching in my lower abdomen and the noticeable spike in my heart rate. Despite that, all I can think is that maybe turning off my comm-link wasn't the smartest idea.

* * *

Literature, while a respectable pursuit is not popular in District Three. We, as a collective, tend to gravitate towards subject grounded in logical thinking and facts more so than symbolism and interpretation. But in my early education I elected to study the subject for a semester, I remember the iambic pentameter favoured by the great bards from before the birth of Panem; the immersive worlds built as a microcosm of contemporary society when they were published.

But the one thing that fascinated me was the concept of pathetic fallacy: the attribution of human feelings and responses to inanimate things. Walking towards the street car stop, the sleek architecture of the Scholar's Quarter: Chrome and platinum surrounds me, and as I look towards the skies I find it ironic.

They say knowledge is the key to freedom, but as the thick grey clouds bleed into the steel skyline of my home District I cannot help but feel it resembles a cage. Taunting me with the simple truth: Whatever I achieve, all the knowledge I may accrue is meaningless in the grand scheme of things. I'm effectively trapped. I shake my head, ridding myself of these fruitless thoughts- The moroseness is an expected side effect of the Annual Reaping Ceremony.

In mere moments the street car materialises, and I almost groan as I note it's overcrowded state. Scolding myself for running late I step into the tense silence, curling my lip at the stench of body odour: During the 'festivities', people from across the District gather in the central 'City' of sorts to see if they will be the one chosen to march to their probable death.

I concede that objectively it is saddening, but I have never had the time to spare when it comes to pondering the ethical and political implications of the Hunger Games. I hear the subdued sniffling of a young boy, my eyes quickly finding the culprit. He appears young, I'd hazard a guess that this may be his first year of being eligible to be selected as Tribute and I do sympathise: With his poorly fitting garments, and gaunt appearance, I would assume he has taken tessarae. Which, in turn, increases his chances of being selected- especially in comparison to those, like myself, who have even had to entertain the idea of tesserae.

I note a solemn young woman stood at his side, the resemblance between the two is uncanny with the distinctive planes of their faces, so I can only assume they are related in some way. As she leans to whisper words of encouragement I avert my gaze. I am curious, but I can respect that some moments do not require me to intrude upon. I glance around the other occupants of the street car and it is saddening, I do not recognise a single face; which is unsurprising as my formative years have been spent in an institution which is more than selective in regards to its intake.

Their anxiety is almost suffocating and their unadulterated fear is palpable, no one catches my eye however. It is nothing more than a sea of faces, some of their expression schooled into grim determination; others at the precipice of tears. Until I see him. Cable Maxidan, I had only ever seen him in passing but with his gargantuan height and slate grey eyes I would know him anywhere.

I have been deemed a 'prodigy' pretty much my whole life, selecting biochemistry as my focus, but I had heard of the 'magician' Cable Maxidan. It is a well known fact than in the realm of electrical engineering, the young man is without comparison: I remember once approaching the Studium Board of Governors, requesting that he consult on the improvement of our neuro-scanning technology but was quickly rebuffed with the ominous statement that he had decided to 'part ways with the Studium'.

I'd initially thought he must have suffered some form of breakdown, it is more common than not within the academic circles, but he looks fine. Yes, he is wearing an expression of mild disgust but it is more than understandable when one considers the 'not-so-pleasant' aroma saturating the confines of the street car: But he looks fine.

His gun metal eyes scan the car and as they pass me, I feel for a second that I will see a flicker of recognition, but without as much as a pause he continues. I feel a sharp twang of initial disappointment, and I am surprisingly offended by this potentially unintended slight. I recognised him, and I am familiar with his works but he glances past me as if I am nothing. I would call it arrogance on his behalf, but anyone who consciously chooses to leave the intellectual hub that is the Studium is more stupid than arrogant.

* * *

Upon arrival to the Adjudicator's Square, where no expense has been spared to make the District presentable with neo-Georgian architecture contrasting with the crisp lines of the store fronts, everyone begins to operate on auto-pilot. Subconsciously filing into lines based on our age, ushered by the seemingly endless stream of Peacekeepers.

Being my fourth year eligible, I barely notice the routine sting as my blood sample is taken. The biometric data compared to their census to confirm that I am indeed Pixelle Fitzgerald. I am quickly directed towards the section of the neatly manicured square designated for sixteen year old females. It's almost a physical embodiment of the old adage of 'sheep led to slaughter', but I take little to no notice of what is happening around me: Focussing instead on the next steps in my research, assembling a group of test subjects.

I hear the claxon sound to indicate that our Mayor will be leaving the Justice Building within the minute. I actually smile to myself as I consider the public figure that is Javier Menses: The man is an antithesis to the majority of District Three, he does not appear academically inclined in any way but even I could admit the man has a certain 'charm' , it would not surprise me to hear a chronicle of how he had sold life insurance to a dead person.

Adhering to routine, he begins to read the monotonous Treaty of Treason. I have always been surprised that a legal document can use such extensive hyperbole, but I can concede that when read by Mayor Menses, actively listening isn't too strenuous. His lilting accent, coupled with his sincere stare are almost enough to make the less astute attendees forget that two young people are about to receive a metaphorical death sentence. Yet I still appreciate his melodious tone, and natural ease in such of a large crowd- his words becoming a proverbial 'balm' to the wounds that are the Reaping Ceremony.

Shortly afterward the Capitol propaganda video begins to play, speaking of pageants and honour, but I find it laughable. The concept of something being offered in Tribute is essentially skewed in this context: A tribute is defined as an act, statement, or gift that is intended to show gratitude, respect, or admiration. Not the most accurate sentiment when related to the Hunger Games.

Moments later, the doors to the Justice Building burst open and Coriandra Vincetan totters out on her incredibly high stiletto shoes, with her golden corset, shoes and accessories I would have to admit she is looking particularly radiant today. Similar to uranium, she is positively radioactive as she makes her way to the microphone and taps it obnoxiously.

"Good morning everyone, I am so esteemed to be here in your charming District- blessed with the honour of selecting the two tributes chosen for the 93rd Hunger Games."

I'm sure that the gold and brunette concoction is hearing thunderous applause in her head. If I weren't scientifically minded, I'd presume that the obscenely tight corset has restricted blood flow to her brain. The child like enthusiasm would be much more endearing if it weren't for her effectively personifying the herald of death in District Three. Like a new-born fowl on a sheet of ice she stumbles across the stage to stand before the Reaping bowl.

"And now the lucky young lady who will have the honour of representing this District...Drum roll please."

I would scoff at the overdramatic in which she plunges her tanned arm into the bowl, with a flourish she pulls a slip form the bowl and gasps theatrically. I am a little affronted, if she would just hurry it along it would end the torment of the thousands of young people dreading the next words to spill from her mouth. Plus, I's much rather be ensconced in the laboratory than entertaining this spectacle.

"Pixelle Fitzgerald"

It takes me a moment to acknowledge the words that Coriandra has spoken. Mathematically it should be nigh on impossible for me to be the selected 'Tribute', literally I had a 0.0342% chance of being selected. This is an anomaly, a freakish anomaly wherein I am not in a position to alter the parameters to produce a more favourable result. In this moment I am Schrodinger's Cat: Both alive and dead at the same time.

No, I cannot afford to think in such a way. I am highly intelligent and resourceful, I will not stand to be written off as a 'Bloodbath'. I have an extensive skill set and I know that I have much more to offer the world than to be slaughtered for sport. As I walk towards the stage, those lucky enough not to have been handed a potential death sentence part like the Red Sea. I cannot help it as I begin to imagine a number of scenarios I may face in the near future.

If someone lunges with a knife, should I target the centroid artery or the femoral? What is the safest distance to stand when utilising a Molotov cocktail? And then I face the dilemma of how I should present in the Capitol, and more importantly: Am I capable of acting in such a manner? I feel the burn of acid in the back of my throat, but I refuse to debase myself by showering the stage floor with vomit.

As I walk onstage, Coriandra rushes towards me and pulls me into what I am sure she assumes is a comforting embrace. The poignant tones of patchouli and lavender that she prefers as her perfume are assaulting my already delicate constitution, and in a conscious effort not to shower the Capitolite with the sparse breakfast I had eaten I look towards my 'Mentor' in multiple contexts.

Ion Synapse, Victor of the 78th Annual Hunger Games, but more importantly the man who had 'held my hand' throughout my debut into the world of science. But as I turn for comfort in his familiar silver eyes but the copper headed Victor is staring at the ground. Any hurt I feel is meaningless, I face these Games alone and now the first dice are thrown. Closing my eyes I take a deep breath and feel all of my anxiety, disgust and fear recede into nothingness as I force my features to assume a mask of polite indifference.

A mask I never thought I would wear again, favoured when I was belittled by those who presumed a young woman was incapable of providing worthwhile contributions to the world of science. I survived then when the odds were against me, and I intend to survive now. I shall do everything within my power to ensure that I am crowned Victor. Pixelle Fitzgerald, Victor of the 93rd Hunger Games, is almost as impressive as having my findings published in scientific journals and preserved in the Archives after all.

* * *

The first thing I noticed after my admittance to the Justice Building was the absurd differences to the Studium. The elaborate oak furnishings are a stark contrast to the sleek chrome I am accustomed to, but it's expected. I am now in circumstances I never expected. Pixelle Fitzgerald is now a Tribute in the Hunger Games, where statistics deemed it pretty much impossible. I have paced this opulently furnished room in excess of 200 times, advising the Peacekeepers stationed outside that I would only receive visitors in the final five minutes. I have no time for sentimentality when all my energy should be directed to somehow surviving this Gladiatorial death match I am facing.

Calling on my limited knowledge of past Victors, I begin to piece a strategy together: And it would be incredibly effective if it weren't for one thing, I am not a sociable creature by habit. But things change, and I am sure I have the capacity to adapt to survive in these circumstances. I finally take a seat on the maroon leather sofa as I hear the muted voices of my parents approaching. I won't surrender to my childish desires to seek comfort, I can view this nothing more than a business transaction.

The effect is almost comical as my parents burst into the room, my father close to tears as he allows his emotions to rule: I have always envied my father's ability to emote on a level which has always escaped me. But as I see him almost fall to the ground in his grief I realise I am not afforded the luxury of breaking down. I am now playing the most lethal game of chess, and every move must be calculated with an end goal in mind. As he lurches towards me, I raise my hand to tell him to stay where he is. Turning to my mother, her haughty features are as unaffected by the circumstances as ever, her tawny eyes assess me with an indifference I appreciate in this context.

"You know what you have to do to win, don't burden yourself with the idiocy that are morals. Come home and change the world, the way you have always said you will. Good luck."

Most would assume that was a cold assessment of my current context, and most would be right. My mother has never been one for outward emotion, a trait that it seems I have inherited. But she never lies, I have to return: I promised my life to science, and it's my responsibility to return to District Three and make my mark on a world that wants to see me forgotten.

Meeting my mother's unaffected stare, I nod my head and in that moment I realise: The 93rd Hunger Games have begun, and I shall set the world alight if needs be to ensure I am the sole survivor.

* * *

**Lanius "Lan" Packer, 14  
District Three Male**  
**BleachIsHealthy**

Black and Blue, I crawl along, the wreckage of what now is gone. My house, my place of memories and happiness, all gone.

"Why did your house burn down?

"My father couldn't take life anymore, so he ended it."

"Oh, I-I'm so sorry."

"First he wastes my mom's life and he leaves me alone in mine."

"Your not alone, you have me."

"True."

"Yup." My friend, his name is Ron. We've been best friends since my mom was gone, he is the only one I care about. He is more of my family than my father was.

"Lan?"

"Yes."

"I don't feel I have a right to ask this, but how did your father kill your mother?"

"Sigh...my father didn't kill her, he sold her as a slave because we had no money. I'll never forgive him for it."

(Flashback)

"MOMMY, NO!"

"It's ok Lanius, she is going somewhere better for her"

"NO SHE'S NOT, I HATE YOU! I HOPE YOU DIE AND GO TO A BAD PLACE!"

(End of Flashback)

"Oh dear...I'm so sorry."

"It's not your fault, don't worry about it."

"Well we should hurry, the reaping is today."

We headed over to the square where the reaping was being held, it had always been in the back of mind if I'd ever be picked for the games, but I never worried too much because the odds were in my favor, I had less than one percent of a chance to be picked. After about 5 minutes, out comes a woman with a golden corset, stiletto shoes, and accessories.

"Good morning everyone, I am so esteemed to be here in your charming District blessed with the honor of selecting the two tributes chosen for the 93rd Hunger Games!" She then reached for a glass bowl that held the paper slips that had all of our names in them.

"And no the lucky lady who will have the honor of representing this district...Drum roll please…Pixelle Fitzgerald." Out came a girl up to the stage. "And now, for the boys." she says reaching again for that glass bowl. "Lanius Paker!" Her voice echoing in my head and I realize I'd be chosen. At that moment so many emotions flew into my head; sadness, anger, shock, confusion. The only emotion not present was happiness of any kind. I reluctantly walked through the crowd of people, all staring at me like I'm heading to my death. I walked up to the stage next to the glass bowl, the very thing that chose my fate. "Lets have a round of applause for the district 3 tributes in the 93rd Hunger Games!"

I sat in a room by myself, waiting to see if anyone will come to visit.

"Lanius Packer, you have a visitor!" I lift up my head to see Ron standing there with a sad expression on his face.

"Hey Lan...how you holding up. I felt that I needed to see you before you left." I nodded my head, not saying a word to him. "Hey, Lan!" he says looking me with an angry face, "I know you can win this, I know I'm gonna see you again.

"Thanks Ron" I say giving him a giant hug. "I'll win this for you."


	11. District 4 Reaping

**Pike Anapos, 17  
****District Four Male  
****Nrrrd-Grrrl-Meg**

"_A ship in a harbor is safe, but this is not what ships are built for."  
__-John A. Shedd_

_One. Two. Three. Four. Five._

The salty ocean air escapes me lips and dies against the sound of the heavy waves crashing against the jetty. The inky water slams and rages, fighting against the sun that insists on turning it's color back to the cerulean hue that the world is used to. In the distance, the rising sun's flames lick the water, spreading its hushed orange and yellows across the horizon, dancing along as it brought about the start of yet another day. This spot on Driftwood Beach, atop the rocky jetty has always been my place of serenity, which is almost ironic, as this was the best view of where our local Training School liked to send our dead tributes out into the next life. Too many people in my life have watched as their loved one's body was burned as the sun began to set, returning them to the waters that gives us so much in life.

It's a perfect circle, one would say.

Eleven months ago I sat here, watching third year trainees shoot burning arrows towards the body of the one person that meant more to me outside of my sister. Corburn Morrisey had been like an older brother to me; giving me my lumps when I earned them and shielding me from from the world when I needed it. He volunteered last year, not only to prove himself to the District that looked down on kids like us, but also to save my reckless hide from doing it myself, knowing there was not a single hope in the world of me coming home with a pulse. He even became our districts last hope, as not a single person believed his partner would be the one making it home. When the clock struck zero, we all knew better; Coventina was fooling us all and she was more deranged than any of us thought. Less than a month later, we had our first female victor since Annie Cresta in the 70th Games and he was dead, murdered at the hands of the pair from Seven.

_One. Two. Three. Four. Five._

If only my father hadn't push all the right buttons that morning, saying all the right things to set me off like a powder keg. I knew I shouldn't have gone to see him before the Reaping, after all, he pulled the same stunt every year. Anything to get me to volunteer and make him proud; anything to make up for his one failure.

_One. Two. Three. Four. Five._

"I knew I'd find you here." Her voice is like one of my mother's lullaby, lulling me out of my self-loathing and bringing me back from the brink. "I just didn't think you'd be up this early, Fish-Boy."

My stomach does a flip when I turn and take her in. Mera Knox, daughter of Knox Academy's founder and head trainer Darren Knox, has a subtle beauty to her; a mop of long, dark brown curls that bounce around to the small of her back and large green eyes that seemed to love staring into me. She has been the one constant in my life since Coburn left and I could live a thousand lives and still not be able to make it up to her. Of course, I was there for her too, as he was always the one that held her heart, as the pair had been lucky enough to grow up together.

"What can I say, I'm a creature of habit."

"You're anything but," she teases, before climbing the rocks to join me on top of the jetty. She sits beside me and drops her head onto my shoulder. "How can it be this time of year already, Pike?"

I let out a sigh as I put my head on her. "Coburn would say something wise, like _time is relative_ or _that's how the calendar works, idiot!"_

She chuckles, covering her mouth as her chest shakes. "That's so him."

"He's the real idiot in all this," my voice is barely a whisper, but I know she hears me. "I should have gone in, not him."

"You really think he would have let you?" she's right, as always. "He never would have let you Volunteer as long as he was still within Reaping age. Besides, he had more to prove than either one of us."

"Yeah, yeah," I sigh again, letting my eyes wander out towards the horizon, where I can see some of the fishing boats making their way back to the harbor.

"Look, two more years and we're done with all of this," she reminded me, taking my hand. "My father finally got it through his thick skull that I wasn't going into the games without a fight now that he's got his little pet at his side. He's got picks for this year and next, so I'm in the clear."

"Who's he got in mind this year?"

"Cadence Whitehall and Augustus Avalon."

I vomit in my mouth. "Augustus Avalon? That moron! Isn't he trying to hook-"

It's her time to sigh. "Yes, that's the moron he's trying to hook me up with. Coventina dropped him as soon as she dropped her ditsy blonde act and ever since then, father has been pushing him onto me. At least now I might get to dodge that bullet-" She covers her mouth and her eyes go wide. "That's just awful, he's not all _that_ bad."

"Except that he is," I nudge her with my shoulder and laugh. "He's kinda gross."

I rise to my feet and steady myself, before dropping my hand down to her and help her to her feet.

"Maybe a little," she laughter rings out higher than the crashing waves. "But he's nowhere near as bad as you, Fish-Boy."

I back away from her, feigning indigence. "How could you feel that way about me, Miss Knox?"

"Oh please, you're terrible!" she continues to snicker, slugging me in the shoulder. "Maybe even the worst!"

"I'll show you the worst!"

Before she can catch on to what I have planned, I plant a kiss on her cheek and spin on my heel. As quickly as I spun and I am gone, pushing myself faster and farther with each step and as I hear her scream echo behind me, I leap off the edge of the jetty and take the plunge. My hands instinctively shoot out ahead of my head, taking the biting cold of the water like champ as my body follows behind it, my system taking a jolt for just a moment as my head reminds my body that I am alive...now swim! I live up to my nickname and it doesn't take my long before I am out further than even Mera excepts me to be. I rise up, seeing her waiting for me on the beach with her arms folded.

"I hate you, Pike Anapos," she hollers, shaking her head at my recklessness.

And I love you, Mera Knox.

"We better head home and get ready," she playfully grabs me by my long, dirty blonde locks and pulls me down the beach. "It's going to take you all morning to be somewhat presentable."

"I clean up when I want to, Ms. Knox," I struggle out of her grip. "It's you I'm worried about. No way daddy's going to let his little girl out among all those boys in nothing but her wet bathing suit.

"I'm not wet-"

She lets out a shriek as I grab her by the stomach and proceed to toss her into the water as a wave crashes over us. My eyes burn as she splashes the salty water into my face, but I can't help but smile. My face hurts from the salt in my eyes and the smile that refuses to leave and I just don't want to leave this moment. It's just too damn perfect.

"We need to get to the Reaping," she effused, pulling herself away from me. "My father will kill me if I'm late."

"Not even Darren Knox's murderous rage can stop me," I let out a mocking roar, which leads to me giggles from her. "No Reaping can stop us-"

"Is that so?" His voice brings us to a grinding halt, of course in the compromising position of me, holding his pride and joy by the waist in thigh high water. "Let's go, Mera...you need to get ready."

I leave her go and she scurries off, trying to get as far away from her father as she can. Despite his soft spot for his only daughter, he was a harsh monster when the mood took him and this was one of those times. She was able to sneak a glance back at me and mouth _I'm sorry_ before making herself scarce.

Darren Knox turns his attention back to me, grabbing me by shoulders and pulling me back to my feet. I'm not exactly the smallest guy around, but he still has an easy half foot on me and at least a hundred pounds. I gulp, as it is the only thing my body can think to do. Even breathing is behind my capabilities.

"My daughter is not a plaything," his hot breath hits me smack in the face, his voice barely a whisper. "You are nothing more than a drunkard's bastard, you'll never be more than a drunkard's bastard, and you will never touch my daughter again. Do we have an understanding?"

He doesn't give me a chance to answer before he continues, but at least he lets me go. "It's bad enough she had to lose her mind over that boy from last year, the _orphan._" He spits out the last word as if it burned him to say it. "She cried and cried over than piece of sh-"

A blast of crimson came over me, drowning my mind and blocking out any sense I had left. It wasn't until I was back in the ocean again, my hands covering my throbbing left eye and bloody nose that I realized I took a swing on the biggest guy in the District and was handed my ass.

"She deserves a man like Augustus Avalon," he spits at me before kicking sand at me. "After he wins, he can take care of her the way she deserves to be, not knocked up with your little bastard while living in a sea shack!"

Common sense finally comes back to me and I sit in the drink, letting my face and pride recover from the worst beating I've had since the last time I mouthed off to my old man. Hell, he hits harder than my old man. Makes me wonder why he never went into the Games.

The walk home isn't a long one, but I make sure to go out of my way to not be seen. The less people that see my face the better and before long, I am at my front door. I breathe in deep and open it, expecting to see my old man rounding on me, but instead I find a calming silence. Or, what qualifies for calming silence in my home.

From what my mother told me, my father wasn't always downing bottle after bottle before slamming his fists into anyone he could get his hands on. He spent a large portion of his childhood and teen years in the largest training center our district had at the time and was a shoe-in for Victor. He waited until he was eighteen as soon as the male's name was called, he made his move from the back of the pens.

Finnick Odair beat him to it.

He was humiliated, and rightfully so. His father paid for the best training money could buy and it was all for nothing. Grandfather kicked him out that very day and he was forced to move in with his childhood sweetheart, good ol' ma, and had my older sister Lakely not long afterwards. Unable to keep a job or stay sober, my mother has been stuck working long hours in the fish market to keep a roof over our head and food in our bellies. And, of course, clear alcohol in his hands, if only to get him so drunk he just sleeps all day.

I was to be his great renaissance, his second coming. That's what he always told me. He studied the games in his sober moments, taking in what he can to make me better than any paid trainee. If a victor won using their fists, he taught me how to take a few hits. Did someone starve to death? Nothing but foraged berries from the neighbor's yard to eat for a week. Spears were the thing I took to best, which worked for him as that was his specialty. For years I took this, knowing nothing else. I wanted to go into the games, to make him proud. After all, he couldn't put his hands on me again if I was a Victor?

But that wouldn't save my sister.

She was born early and sickly, most likely due to something he had done. Lakely was frail and shy, mostly keeping to herself whenever she could. When he couldn't get his hands on me, he would turn to her, blaming her for his lot in life. After all, it was _her_ fault she was as sick as she was, _her _fault Finnick Odair was faster than he was, _her_ fault he couldn't find a brand of liquor he didn't like. Mother would step in where she could, but she feared for her own safety as well.

"Pike what happened?" She grimaced as she took my hand, leading me towards the icebox. Within minutes I had a towel filled with ice cooling my puffy eye and quick work was made of the blood that dribbled down chin. "Did you dad do this?"

"A father did, but not mine," I wince as she checks my nose for any sign of breakage. "This came courtesy of one Darren Knox."

She shook her head. "He's always had a grudge against your father, since their training days."

I'm lucky enough to get my good looks from her. Even at close to forty-five, my mother was a looker, however there was a sadness to her soft green eyes. It broke my heart to look at them, knowing she was just as trapped as her children were. She deserved so much more than she was given in life; I just wish I could give it to her.

"It's going on eleven boy," his voice cuts through me and I'm ten years ago again, begging him to let me have something more than berries for dinner. "What are you doing bleeding and leaving wet spots all over my house!"

"Darren Knox hit him," my mother whimpers out, putting her body between his and my own. "He'll be ready, don't you worry."

"You Volunteering?"

I lower my head.

"Pathetic."

_One. Two. Three. Four-_

"I put his Reaping outfit on his bed, papa," Lakely voice comes shakily down the steps, taking his attention away from me. "Can I get ready now?"

"My clothes are too good for the likes of him," his voice is like daggers now. "Pathetic wimp can't even handle himself against some punk on the street and has to go blaming it on Knox. If he hit you, you'd still be laid out. Waste of damn space."

I want to fight back, to tell him exactly what I think of him, but I keep my composure instead. One bout of blackout rage ending with my haste defeat is enough for one day. Instead, I kiss my mother on the forehead and say goodbye to my sister before walking out the door. Wearing nothing but my soaked board shorts and my own blood, I make my way over to the town center. The Peacekeepers taking our blood and attendance barely look at me, let alone notice the state I'm in, but as soon as I am in my spot in the seventeen year old pen, Mera does.

"What the hell happened?"

I don't even have a chance to acknowledge her, as our mayor takes the stage, followed closely behind by our long-standing escort, Cicero Hortensia and our three Victors. Coventina looks just as smug as ever, her nose stuck up as she smacks her lips. To her left is Joe Reed, winner of the 87th Games, a Reaped kid that grew up not too far away from me. While I didn't really know much of him before the games, he became a bit of a hero to me. To her right is our first Victor since the last rebellion, Zale Galloway, winning just a year before Joe did. He was nothing more than another trained Victor, handed everything he needed to win just like most Careers.

Just thinking the word makes me want to puke.

I can be just as good as any of them, if not better. Winning wouldn't just be another crown on my head, another boost to my ego, it would mean a life outside of abuse for my mother and sister, another chance for District Four to see past their own hubris and acknowledge there is more to a tribute than paying to train.

Cicero waddles over towards the first bowl, his hot pink up-do catching my eye and distracting me from my internal rant. He barely manages to get out the first name of the male tribute and I am off and running, leaving Augustus in my dust. Mera's pleading barely makes it to my ears as I rush the stage, sending Cicero into a fit over the sight of me. My face was still a mangled mess, blood peppered my bare chest and my shorts were still a bit moist in some areas; I kind of don't blame him for being a bit startled. His eyes travel down to my bare feet and I have a good laugh for the first time since the Driftwood Beach.

"Shoes aren't my thing," I shrug, taking his microphone from his hand as he composes himself. "Hi, Pike Anapos, pleased to represent the lot of you in this years games."

I hand him back the mic and stand off to the side, grinning like a crazed loon. From my vantage point I can see Mera, hiding her face in the girl next to her's chest, but I can't let it get to me. All eyes are going to be on District Four and if I look weak, it will mean a quick, painful death.

"And now, for the ladies," his chubby digits find a slip of paper and it is plucked from its home. "MOIRA CAEVE!"

Whispers abound from the last section of pens, but no one emerges. It doesn't take me more than a moment to lock onto Cadence Whitehall, looking as if she wanted to be anywhere else. Behind me, I can hear Coventina hiss and murmur as it becomes apparent very quickly that she wasn't going to volunteer as she was supposed to and Mera didn't say anything about a back up.

Please Mera...don't do it. Please…

She doesn't have a chance to, as Moira herself enters the aisle and walks towards me with her head held high. If she's scared, she isn't bothering to show it which should help her in the long run. She's small, tiny almost, at least compared to me, and fifteen at most, but she has aura about her that makes me believe that if anyone could make it out, it could be her. Of course, she'd have to get through me first.

Wait…

It's not until I'm ushered into the Justice Center and shoved in a small room that I realize what I've done. My father wanted me to follow in the legacy he failed at. I will have to slaughter my way through other tributes, other _children_ if I am to ever see my family again, to see Mera again. Am I willing to do something so awful, so cruel, just to come back home? It's not like I was Reaped, like Moira...I _chose _this, just like Coburn did last year.

And where is he now?

_One. Two. Three. Four. Five._

I stalk the floor like a caged animal, ready to escape. I count and count and count, but my nerves still ring in my head like church bells. It takes everything in me not to pounce as the door to my room opens and my mother and sister burst in, tears streaming down their faces.

"You shouldn't listen to your father," Mother cries, pulling me into her arms. "You didn't need to do this."

I kiss the top of her head, then pull my sister in to join our hug. "Yes I did. For you and Lakely. You deserve so much more!"

"Father said he would be here soon," Lakely chimes in, wiping the tears from her dark eyes. "He wanted to buy you a token."

"I don't want anything from him," I growl, making my mother hug me tighter. "He will never get anything from me and he won't take credit when I come home."

My mother pulls me in and kisses me on the cheek. "I love you, my son. You be safe and smart and you come home to us."

"I love you little brother," Lakely follows up, hugging me one last time.

"I love you both and I'll come home," I reassure them. "Just you wait and see."

Mera storms in next and I almost expect her to hit me, but instead she buries her head in my chest. "I almost volunteered for that girl. Her sister's a trainee at the school and she didn't even volunteer, but I couldn't go in with you. I can't lose you too, Pike."

"I think my name is Fish-Boy," I remind her, causing her to smile, if only slightly. "Don't you worry about me, I'm too stupid to die."

"You better be the biggest moron out there then," she gushes, pulling me in once again for a hug. "You'll need a token."

I roll my eyes. "Father of the year is supposedly getting me one."

"To hell with him!" I'm taken back by her tone, as she undoes the woven ankle bracelet that never left her body. "Take this and wear it always. It'll be easy to tell if you aren't wearing it, it's not like the Capitol can make you wear shoes!"

"Shoes are conforming and uncomfortable," I complain, as I tie her gift around my ankle. "Thank you, Mera. For everything. I wouldn't have made it this year without you."

I want to tell her how I feel, to give her a deathbed confession, but alas, I can't. At the end of the day, I'm nothing more than a coward. A coward that is going into the fight of his life. She gives me another hug before she leaves and once again, I'm alone with my thoughts. Father never bothers to see me off, but it's for the best.

_One. Two. Three. Four. Five._

District Four will have another back-to-back victory.

_One. Two. Three. Four. Five._

I came to my Reaping barely dressed and covered in my own blood. The worst is over, right?

Right?

* * *

**Moira Caeve, 15**

The crashing sound of the ocean soothes her nerves. She's never gone out by herself like this before, and echoes of her mother's _it's too dangerous _and _what if something happens to you? _have been swimming in her head like the fish that swim underneath her boat. But she pushes them away. _You'll be _fine_, you've had this boat for a long time and you know how to handle it, _she reprimands herself. The conditions are ideal, too, a slight breeze and calm waters. Moira's not foolish enough to say _what could go wrong?_, but she seriously doubts anything will.

Clutched in one hand is a small picnic basket with a roll, butter, cereal, and milk – along with all the necessities such as silverware and a plate. The sun is just starting to rise, casting a pink color on the sky and the ocean. It's beautiful, perfect really, but she's glad most people stay inside and sleep in. If they knew about this sunrise, they'd be flocking out here and Moira's peace would be ruined.

She arrives at the dock where her boat is kept, and the picnic basket is thrown inside the boat. She climbs in and lets out the sail, which is made of "more patches than sail", as her mother likes to say. What can Moira say, though? The adrenaline is why she loves it, and that has landed her in several boating accidents. Most of them she's gotten out of okay by herself, apart the time when she gave herself a broken arm. Her parents had been incredibly angry, especially since they were under the impression she was training at the academy. Just like her sister, who was _perfect_ and had plans to volunteer next year ("Even if I'm not chosen to volunteer, I'm still doing it," Moira had heard her bragging to her friend.)

"Stupid. So. Very. Stupid," Moira grumbles underneath her breath. Even though her sister was one of the Academy's top trainees, going willingly into a deathmatch against twenty-four other children was the worst idea Moira had ever heard.

The sailboat is her most prized possession. It has a lot of value, Four being the fishing district and all, plus technically Moira could sail away and never come back. _That would be nice._ But not possible.

Shaking her head out of the fantasies of escaping the Capitol's cruel grasp, Moira unchains the sailboat from the harbor and starts sailing. The sunrise is beautiful, spinning a web of pinks and oranges in the District Four sky. The wind carries her along gently, and soon enough the buildings are no taller than the dollhouse Emilia used to play with. Sensing a change in the wind's direction, Moira adjusts her sail slightly and closes her eyes for a second, savoring the feel of wind on her face. Then, opening them, she ties the rope to the boat and opens the picnic basket.

Moira butters the roll and takes a bite. It's still warm and delicious, a good breakfast. Her parents won't be bothered with her taking it; the reaping is today and although they're not rich, they're more fortunate than families like Emilia's, who rely on schools of fish passing by to collect a meagre income. There were seven rolls of bread and not even seven of them in the family.

Still, she can't squash a small nagging guilt for stealing. _Don't, _she tells herself. But it won't disappear. Hoping to get rid of it, she finishes the roll and checks the sail, instantly regretting having let herself drift off. She's way off course, and District Four is barely a speck on the horizon. Growling, Moira spits out a string of curses and grasps the rope to redirect the sail. And it's then that the waves start to threaten her.

_How ironic. The one day it seems safe to go out by myself is the day I might get myself killed. _Moira hates irony more than almost anything else, and she's trying not to scream at herself while she steadies the boat.

The waves are splashing up to greet her hands.

She shifts her weight and ducks her head to let the sail pass. _Please work please work…_

The waves surge on the left side of her boat.

They're threatening to tip her over. To try and prevent that, she puts all her weight on the left side. She can feel it balancing out. _Don't tip…_

_Smack! _With a jolt, the boat shudders and Moira is thrust into the waters. Salt splashes into her eyes and she shakes her head, treading furiously to keep above the water. She's never needed a lifejacket, plus they cost money to rent, so she didn't bother with one. Does she regret that? Kind of. Closing her eyes, she floats for a second before opening them to two surprises: a stinging pain in her eyes and a capsized boat. She grabs the boat and tries to pull it up. Nothing. Sighing, she tries another approach – pulling the other side down. With all her strength, she pushes the boat down and it bobs. _Nothing._

Would being tossed out into the ocean be better than facing the reaping? Moira wants to say yes, but the answer really is, not in the slightest. There's no guarantee she'd be reaped, she's not _scared_ of the reaping or anything, and wouldn't Ailis volunteer anyways? So no, she would much rather _not_ die out here, thank you very much, but still. Her death would be painless, right? But why is she worrying about a painless death? _My death will not be here or now. I'm going to make it out._

And Moira, if anything, never quits.

There was just the problem of getting the boat back to shore.

* * *

"Pretty dress."

Moira forces a smile at Emilia's mom and replies, "Thanks." The dress is just a normal dress, same-old mint green halter that Ailis wore when she was fifteen and sixteen. Moira doesn't care too much for the color, mint-green is nothing compared to the dark green undertones of the water, and the deep colors she sees on turtles and algae. But at least the fabric is comfortable.

"Mrs. Caeve is picking you two up after this finishes," she adds. "I have some shopping to do. Emilia, I'll pick you up at around three. Dad has a late shift tonight, I think he's coming back at eight?" She shook her head. "I'm so sorry."

Emilia places a hand on her mother's shoulder. "Don't worry about it, Mom. You're doing the best you can, and that's all that matters." Her mother's response is a small smile before the two leave to check in. By the time they're in line - they're grouped in alphabetical order and Emilia's last name, Daille, is close to hers - Emilia is visibly shaking.

Moira wishes she could be more like her best-and-only friend sometimes, but Emilia's hemophobia and anxiety was something Moira didn't envy. Emilia wouldn't last ten seconds after her name was called, and Moira would gladly volunteer before said ten seconds was up. Emilia is someone worth fighting for. Moira remembers her mothers words on that subject: _I'm glad you have a friend like Emilia. She's a great person. _And in return, Moira would respond with _yes, mom. Yes she is._

She hates her blunt and not people friendly nature at times like this, because she wants to reach out to Emilia but doesn't have a clue how to comfort her. "Hey," is what she comes up with, giving her friend a lighthearted shoulder bump. _That was probably the wrong thing to do. No, that was _definitely _the wrong thing to do. Well you're stuck with it now._ It was like two people inside her brain, constantly fighting for her attention. "You okay?"

Unexpectedly, her friend shakes her head. "But I guess you already knew that."

"Did you take your - I'm sorry, I shouldn't've said that." Moira is Emilia's best friend, not her mom, _she's _not the one who should be bringing up Emilia's anxiety meds. "I'm here for you, you know that. I promise it's only a tiny pinprick. And the Capitol favors District Four," she adds in, remembering last year when Emilia had confessed she was worried about getting an infection from the blood-scanning machine. "They're going to make sure all the equipment is sterile."

Emilia shakes her head again. "That doesn't stop me from feeling that way," she adds. "But I appreciate you trying to help." And then it was their turn to check in.

Bravely, Emilia steps up first. She holds out her right index finger, but before the Peacekeeper can prick it, Moira steps in. "Excuse me, but would you mind sterilizing that first? It doesn't look very clean to me."

The Peacekeeper gives out a grunt. "Afraid I can't do that, miss, unless..." he (Moira _thinks_ they're a he, but can't be sure) lowers his voice significantly "you got any jewelry on ya? Or anything fancy? Ten years are almost up and I'm planning on proposing to my girlfriend soon. Problem is, I don't have enough money. Anything'll work."

Moira fumbles around for a second before finding the dress' pocket. Ailis, as expected, left a few things in there. So she pulls out three rings, one with a large sapphire, one with three diamonds ingrained in a gold band, and finally a rose-quartz-and-emerald one. "Take your pick," she whispers.

His eyes widen in shock. "Wha-Thank you so much. I'll have this one," he chooses the sapphire and then grabs a sterile wipe from under the table and wipes down the needle. "Your name, miss?" Moira hesitates for a second, then tells him once she's determined he means good. "I'll remember you." Then, he pricks both of them and collects their blood. They leave towards the pen, and Emilia gapes in shock at Moira.

"How?"

Moira shrugs. "You know what Ailis is like. Here, I bet you'll make a fortune out of it," she hands the rose quartz ring to Emilia. Slipping the gold-and-diamonds one back into the pocket, they walk past the ropes marking the eighteen-year-olds' pen. Then she realizes how truly terrified Emilia is. "Emilia. Shh. Listen to me, we're gonna be alright. Cadence will volunteer."

A murmuring voice catches Moira's attention. "Cadence, please! You have to, or else what would happen?" _Speak of the devil. Cadence._ Two of her friends are begging her to do something or another, and somehow Moira's compelled to listen.

"You know how it is! My parents _paid_ for me to get the volunteer spot, I'm not going to last out there! I'm _not_ volunteering. And that's _final_." Moira doesn't doubt this. Cadence's father, a rich businessman, and mother, an author for the Capitol, would definitely have the money to bribe Academy officials. And Cadence, although a good fighter, isn't as good as Ailis, not to mention some of the eighteen year old trainees. And if her parents had bribed them, they would be so sure that Cadence is volunteering..._There's no backup volunteer, _she realizes with horror.

Silence. Then, "Fine, Cadence, but what if a twelve year old is reaped? Are you going to let them fight to their death?"

But Cadence is not to be deterred, Moira notes, and she responds with "If the tribute is _fourteen_ or younger I'll volunteer. But anyone else could do just as well - or better - than I can." And Moira realizes what this means. If she's reaped, will Ailis _really _volunteer? Would she risk it? _She doesn't love me._ All that Ailis really cares about is her career as a...well, a Career, and she won't put Moira in the way for it.

That's when the true fear kicks in.

_Moira. Stop it,_ she tells herself as she takes deep breaths. _You have to be brave for Emilia._ And she calms herself, one breath after another, until they're sliding underneath the rope to the fifteen-year-olds' section. Moira pats her friend's shoulder and smiles reassuringly, despite the butterflies brewing and the mental storm on the horizon. She tells herself that it's going to be okay as Emilia nervously grabs her hand and squeezes the circulation out of it.

_It'sgoingtobeokay it'sgoingtobeokay __it'sgoingtobeokay._

She tells herself it's okay as Cicero Hortensia picks out a male slip and someone who isn't Augustus Avalon volunteers. Although she takes a moment to scoff at him for having volunteered, and the first thing he says is _Shoes aren't really my thing._ Of all the ways to make a good impression, and he had to say _that?_

_It'sgoingtobeokay it'sgoingtobeokay __it'sgoingtobeokay._

She tells herself it's okay as Cicero reaches into the female bowl and calls out "Moira Caeve". She looks around to see if the tribute is twelve or eighteen and - _oh fuck, it's her._ And nothing's okay anymore.

She walks up to the stage with her head held high, because if she's walking to her death sentence, she might as well do it with damn pride.

But Moira has never wished she was younger before today.

* * *

"I don't know what to say."

"Then don't say anything," she replies to her dad's comment, feeling the silk of the curtains running through her fingers. She brings them to the seat and digs her fingernails into the velvet. Ailis not having arrived yet, the three of them sit in the goodbyes room, the last place Moira will ever see her family and friend. Tears are pooling in both Caeves' eyes. But not Moira's because she's been taught her whole life how to be strong, and certainly doesn't plan on stopping now just because the end is near.

_Well, at least they named the room appropriately._

"How - " her mom hiccups. "How much time did you _actually_ spend at the training c-center?"

"Enough to refuse to go down without a fight. Enough to know I'm not making it out alive." That's when Moira's mom lets out a massive sob, pulling her tight. Her dad does, too, and all three of them refuse to let go for a long time. When they pull away, fresh tears streak down both parents' faces and they're silent for a moment. It's her dad who responds next.

"You seem strangely calm for someone who's going to a death match," is what he remarks.

"Yeah, well I guess - "

The door is slammed open and Ailis stands there in absolute fury. She mutters a string of curses under her breath. Her black hair, streaked with a magenta-y purple, is an absolute mess and bruises are forming on her upper arms. From what Moira can tell, she was attacking someone and the Peacekeepers had to retain her. "I'm going to _fucking flay_ Cadence Whitehall," she growls dangerously. Her parents look horrified and maybe even...scared? Of their daughter? but all Moira feels is a flicker of hope that Ailis actually cares, that she—

"She ruined my chances for next year! When I volunteer, everyone will know me as 'Ailis Caeve, sister to last year's tribute'. Not 'Ailis Caeve, rightful victor of the 94th Hunger Games', like everyone knows I _should._ I'll just be a dead tribute's sister."

Those words sting. It's not like Moira has enough belief in the Ailis-actually-cares-for-her theory to assert its existence, and she knows she's going to die. But hearing it from someone else..._that's _what stings. More painfully than anything else, including the broken arm she'd gotten whilst sailing.

"Ailis Caeve." It's her mother. "Don't you _dare_ say that. Your sister is trained. She can do this. So don't count her out."

"Oh, yeah?" Ailis' voice is dangerously soft now. The voice she only used before beating her enemies to a pulp. "Do you want to take a bet on that? Who can win, the valedictorian Academy trainee or the _ugly, rulebreaking sailor?_" Then she launches herself on Moira.

The next few minutes go by in a blur, but when Moira regains her memory, she registers four things: her parents are hugging her (her mom planting a kiss on her cheek) and saying goodbye, Ailis was dragged out by Peacekeepers, she's got a large black eye, and Emilia and her mother are entering.

"Goodbye, Mom. Dad. I love you." Then they're gone forever.

"So," Emilia says. "I'm-I truly am sorry. I should've volunteered, I froze up..." she trails off as she sees that Moira's expression is determined, not angry.

"Emilia. It's not your fault. I'm not going down without a fight and I'm pretty sure that's all that counts. Just, please - please remember me, okay? Can you promise that?"

Emilia smiles, flicking a strand of curly hair out of the way. "Of course I can do that. We don't have much time - Ailis took up most of it - but do you have a token?"

"Umm..." Moira thinks for a second before holding up her left wrist. A hairtie is there, but not any old hairtie. She's made it out of sail-scraps and it represents all the struggles she's gone through. "This."

Emilia studies Moira for a second, and when prompted, replies "If you tie that in your hair, you'll be able to bring the ring along, too. How's that? I'm sure a hairtie doesn't count as a token."

Strands of hair are falling in Moira's face, and she brushes them away as she responds, "Okay. Do me a favor though. When I come back, keep the ring. Sell it, wear it, just keep it close, okay? For me?" And she sees Emilia's nod, and returns her melancholy smile with one of her own. The Peacekeepers - no, _Peacekeeper_, singular - walks in. Moira identifies it as the one from the finger pricking. "I'm gonna miss you," she comments as she walks away, willingly going with the Peacekeeper, who tells her a name of a Capitol woman and asks her to keep an eye out. And Moira Caeve does what she thought was impossible.

She makes herself believe that it's okay.


	12. District 8 Reaping

**Fuchsia O'Donnell, 15  
****District 8 Female  
****2017tnt**

* * *

On the worst day of my life, I got up… I wouldn't have called it bright and early, because the sun hardly ever comes out here.

Sure, on one hand, it means that basically everyone in this District looks like they've gone skinny-dipping in a bucket of white paint. But, on the bright side (or the less-dark side, anyway), we don't have to worry about sunburn.

Although it was far from bright out, I still had a little while before I had to kick myself into gear. Normally, our house was empty at the crack of dawn so we could run off to our jobs, but it was Reaping Day today. I had to do a half shift afterward at the clothing factory, but at least I had the early morning off.

I wouldn't have been too surprised if no one wanted to cook anything before the Reapings started, so I didn't bother to wait for breakfast. There were a couple of crackers left in the cabinet from yesterday's dinner, and no matter how bad things got, we always had access to water. A few minutes later, I was perched at our wobbly table, crackers in front of me, water to the side. Fifteen minutes later, the crackers were gone, the glass was empty, and everyone else had woken up.

Magenta came in first, her hair looking like something had exploded in it. Beige strolled in right afterward, and Dad brought up the rear.

Food was eaten. Courtesies exchanged. Outfits put on. We might not have been the best off family in the District, but we still had most of our ducks in a row.

"Fuchsia," Dad said, "Did you sign up for tesserae like we needed to?"

"Yes, Dad," I responded. "Four extra slips, just like you wanted. The first delivery will be after the Reapings; I can get it before I show up for my shift."

"As long as you get it, I don't care," Dad said.

At this point, it had gotten light enough out that we could at least see the thick clouds of smoke our District is infamous for. They're especially bad now since every factory's been running full steam for the last few weeks to hit their required quotas before the Reapings. Even when just stepping outside, you have to screw up your eyes and pinch your nose to make sure you don't get permanent damage from the stuff.

"Beige, do you have your best outfit ready?" Magenta called this from across the room as she put on her equivalent, a simplistic gray, white, and blue dress.

"Well, why the heck wouldn't I? I knew what was coming today," Beige replied, coming out in a clean pair of jeans and a polo T-shirt.

Since I could logically assume I'd be asked next, I rushed to change into my own outfit, a ruby dress with this weird lace at the bottom. Then, I hurried out to stand next to the others.

"So, what's everyone doing once the Reapings are over, just so we can keep track of who's where?" Even though Magenta and Beige were adults and I was only an estrogen spike away from being one as well, Dad wants to keep tabs on all of us. Too many crazy people roamed the streets around here for us to ever feel truly safe.

"Half shift at the dye factory. Yippee," Magenta said. I sympathized with her a lot for that job- the big dye machines seemed to malfunction more often than they work correctly, and almost every day, she came home covered in dye residue.

"Nothing, our boss gave us the day off," Beige said. He worked to maintain the machines at a factory across town, but unlike Magenta's factory, they tended to work most of the time, so his job wasn't a super vital one.

"Same as Magenta, half shift of work," I replied. "At the very least, the Reapings coming before that will make today's work seem kind of fun."

"I agree, but let's go," said Dad. In seconds, we'd all filed out the door for the town square, prepared for the District's most hated event of the year.

* * *

Honestly, I'd never been that stressed out about the Reapings.

Every year, without fail, kids panicked because they were nervous that this year would be theirs in the worst way possible. I'd seen kids cry, tear their own hair out, break out into hysterical fits, and even vomit from all the pressure. I did none of those things. Sure, a low chance is still a chance, but what was the worry? Even for kids who needed to take a lot of tesserae, the odds were still stacked against them being picked.

Magenta knew it. Beige knew it. Patch knew it. And, to no one's surprise, I knew it too. That's why I could have a casual conversation with Patch as we stood in line, waiting to get sent to our assigned section.

"Jeez," I said, "You'd think at this point they'd move to multiple lines or something so this would move faster."

"Well," Patch countered, "at least there is a line and it's not just a mob."

"Sure, at least there's some order," I said. "I guess the Peacekeepers don't want the line to look like the halls in the clothing factory after a shift is over."

We kept the volume level down, but Patch couldn't help but snicker a little at that. I knew it was probably in bad taste, considering what we were waiting for and, well, the factory's sub-optimal conditions, but after a shift ends, everyone else moves so fast you'd think they're running from a monster.

Finally, finally, finally, we got to the front of the line. Patch went first. We'd been here often enough that we knew the drill already- give them your name, let them take a blood sample from you, and get sent to your section. Since Patch and I are the same age, we'd been standing together in our section ever since we were eligible. Small comforts, right?

Then Patch moved on, and it was my turn. "Fuchsia O'Donnell. I should be in the fifteen-year-old section."

A Peacekeeper so old I wouldn't be surprised if he'd just been resurrected yesterday set his mouth in a straight line, every half-smile revealing gaps where his teeth have fallen out. "Your name's there, now we just need to use the needle."

No matter how many times I'd done it, I still hated this part, meaning I closed my eyes and clenched my teeth as they drew blood from my arm. Just as quickly as it started, though, the pain is gone, and I got pushed forward as that same Peacekeeper yelled, "NEXT!"

The older children typically stood in the front here, because they were the most likely to be picked. I'm assuming that they did that to try and make work easier for the Peacekeepers, but all it did to the shorter kids was make sure they couldn't see a thing.

Fortunately, Patch was pretty easy to find. He was wearing some kind of rainbow beanie that looked ridiculous but that I'd never gotten around to making a joke about. After I wove around the smaller children, careful not to knock any of them over, I sidled up next to him.

"So, you ready for this?" Patch wasn't smiling, but he didn't sound too nervous, either.

"Well, as ready as I'm getting," I said. Then, I caught an eyeful of the escort. I knew his name started with an S, but I'd probably butcher it, so I don't say it aloud. "Hey, Patch. I'm not sure what was going through our escort's head when he chose those hair colors, but boy, does it look like he's some sort of deranged gender-equality pusher."

Patch snorted a little. "Yeah, from what I've heard from TV interviews, he wanted to make his hair look like something called… cotton candy? I have no idea what that is, but it sounds ridiculous."

"Yeah, and it'd probably be impossible to eat," I responded. "I've worked with cotton before, that stuff is really dense! Whatever this cotton candy is, it's probably really chewy and not especially tasty- I got dared to try and eat it once before, cotton on its own tastes awful."

Minutes crept by as the town square became packed to bursting. Patch and I managed to stay next to each other, but saying that we were packed together like sardines in a can would be an insult to sardines. They got much more breathing room than we did (even though we actually need to, you know, breathe, and they don't)

Patch was grimacing by then- someone had elbowed him in the gut, and whether it was by accident or done intentionally, it still didn't feel good. "Would it be a bad idea to ask them to give me more than an inch on either side?"

"I'd think so," I replied. "Them trying to move out of the way would probably be more painful than them just waiting there."

After what felt like an eternity of this, the mayor finally came out. He looked like an absolute wreck- he always did on Reaping Day, especially since he had two kids standing among us at the time. His youngest, who couldn't be any older than six, sat down quietly next to his father as he began reading the Treaty of Treason.

There was a long, drawn-out sighing sound that I'm pretty confident came from everyone's eyes collectively glazing over as he plowed through the speech. Not only had we heard this thing a million times before. Not only did anyone with even a faint semblance of education realize that it was stuffed chock-full of lies. It was also ludicrously long. I heard that someone tried to officially clock how long it was a couple of years ago, but since the results never got released to the public, we could only assume how that went.

After what felt like years, the mayor stopped talking, and Saca- Sacho- whatever this escort's name was got handed the microphone. "Hello, ladies and gentlemen. I have returned for another year of Reapings. Now, let's see which of you lovely boys and girls I will be taking with me!"

Patch leaned over so that he was right next to my ear. "Is it just me, or does his voice get higher-pitched every year?"

"Maybe high-pitched voices are the newest Capitol fad," I said. Patch snickers a little.

The escort dug around in the bowl for a while- I wasn't sure if it was the girls' or boys' bowl yet. Unlike some escorts I'd seen from previous Hunger Games, who didn't even try to make it look random, he put in the effort to make sure whoever got selected had nothing to do with where people had been placed. I always gave him the tiniest shred of respect for that.

Once he pulled his hand out of the bowl, though, it was that time of year again. "Ladies first, as always. Could I get Miss Fuchsia O'Donnell on stage, please?"

Patch's smile got replaced with an expression that screamed a combination of "I'm going to kill someone" and "does not compute." But that's about the last thing I remembered for a short while. The world blurred around me, I felt strong arms dragging me towards the stage. Unfamiliar faces stared me down, trying to see if they had a chance this year. Patch let loose a high-pitched shriek that caused every member of the audience to turn towards him. Then… I was dropped on stage, and- whatever the hell this escort's name was- was waving the microphone in my face. "So, Fuchsia, what do you have to say about being called up here this fine day?"

There were plenty of things I wish I could have said, but I had enough sense to realize the best thing to do was to keep my emotions under wraps for now. Thus, I said, "Uh, if anyone needs a job, Clothing Factory X-43 just had a spot open up!" I let out a nervous half-giggle afterward, hoping to whatever higher power was listening that the trick worked.

"Lovely," the escort said. "Now, let's see who'll join you!"

Everything went blurry again after that. I didn't catch the name of the boy who they sent up to stand alongside me, although I did see that he had a tattoo of some kind of flower- I'm not sure which type, since a flower is a rare, rare thing in this District- on one arm, plus scars everywhere, very few of which were fresh. He stood there silently as the escort made a futile call for volunteers, which went unanswered, like it did almost every year.

Then, the two of us were being herded by a whole group of Peacekeepers in a seemingly arbitrary direction, and my brain just kind of checked out for a while.

* * *

"Fuchsia! Hello, anyone in there?"

When everything finally caught up for me, the first sight I was treated to was Magenta waving her hand in front of my face. As soon as I began to move again, Magenta stood up straight again, and that's when I noticed the tears in her eyes. "Sorry, Fuchsia, but you kind of zoned out for a while and we couldn't get any responses out of you. And our visiting period is almost over by now."

"Well, sorry Magenta, but what the heck do you think I would do?" I was trying my damndest not to break down or start hyperventilating, but being one emotion-driven line away from failing on both accounts, I probably looked more or less like a complete disaster.

"Sorry, sorry, I should have been more careful," Magenta said. "I'm just not in the best place right now."

"Me neither," Beige added. "Jeez. I thought we'd be safe from the Reapings since we'd both gotten out alright, but I guess having a hope like that was just a setup to be disappointed."

I nodded in response. "Well, at least you two got out. Hey, two out of three is still a way better ratio than a lot of families get, so I guess we can consider ourselves lucky there."

Dad only sighed. "Fuchsia, I know you're trying to lighten the mood a little. It's not working. Please stop. We can be depressed for a few minutes."

"Sorry," I responded. Then, I leaned in really close to Dad's ear. "I'm really, really stressed right now and trying not to have a panic attack. Any advice whatsoever?"

Unfortunately for me, he didn't really have anything, not being very educated in the field of survival skills. Neither did Magenta, Beige, or Patch, who had just come in, eyes red from crying.

"You're not going to die, are you?" Patch choked out, his words barely a whisper.

"I should be fine," I said, but the words sounded hollow. I was just a fifteen-year-old, and I had a severe disadvantage in comparison to just about everyone else. How could I say that I was going to be fine with a straight face?

Then, the Peacekeeper keeping watch said, "Okay, time's up. We have to move."

With that, everyone else in the room was escorted out in a hurry, and I was left staring face to face with the kid who could have turned out to either be my ally or my worst enemy.

Either way, though, the worst day of my life had just begun.

It was only downhill from there.

* * *

**Noeah Argyle, 14  
****District 8 Male  
****Nrrrd-Grrrl-Meg**

"_Some say loyalty inspires boundless hope. And while that may be, there is a catch. True loyalty takes years to build...and only seconds to destroy."_

_-Emily Thorne_

Ma always said I had the look of my father.

With her pale skin and even paler hair, that much is as certain as the sun rising every single morning, but even as a child, I knew it meant something more than that. With the exception of my freckled complexion, everyone could tell from an early age that I was his child and passed the same judgments they had about him onto me. _He is going to cause nothing but mischief_ they would say, speaking over my head as if I wasn't there. _He'll be whipped to death by Peacekeepers before he's even out of the Reaping bowl._

_He's got the look of his father and the devil in his eyes._

Talk is cheap, however, and actions can be misinterpreted. When they see me getting into trouble, they assume the worm-infested fruit didn't fall from the rotted tree, but what they don't see is why I do what I do. They don't see the boys that sleep under the smog-covered sky, abandoned and forgotten by a District that has so much they'd rather not remember and they ignore the fact that I was one parent away from joining them. I may not have been alive when the second rebellion failed, but I have seen the wreckage _The Mockingjay_ left behind and it was more than just the hallowed out buildings that were never rebuilt. It is the permanently disfigured and the poor, the downtrodden and the orphaned.

My father was one of them.

His parents suffered greatly during the second rebellion, fighting for not only the life of their sons, but the legacy of their daughter, who was murdered at the hands of that boy from District Twelve during the Games the year prior. After her murderer and the Mockingjay spewed their Capitol-approved words and left, my grandparents and father leapt into action, lashing out against the Peacekeepers until they had no choice but to call in for Capitol reinforcements. My grandmother lost an eye, but she continued to fight. Even on lockdown, the District waited patiently and planned. Almost a year later, as the Mockingjay played at being a rebel, my family fought and died, all except my father. It wasn't all bad, however, as in the chaos he met the love of his life.

District Eight is a shell of its former self. Men walk around with their heads hung low, working themselves to death in the smog, while the women let their fingers bleed from sewing costumes for the Capitol and the clothes of our oppressors. Children work half shifts in the looms, sometimes losing their lives and limbs to keep food on the table for their families, while the rich live high above the pollution and make money off of their pain.

It's barbaric...and the reason why I do what I do.

A cockroach runs across my foot as I lie in bed, too exhausted to even flinch as it scuttles down my toes before hiding in the small crack between my straw mattress and the wall. Hopefully the little guy found some kind of crumb while visiting my home, because it's usually slim pickings around the Argyle home. At least today it shouldn't be as bad, as I was able to get my hands on the ingredients necessary for Ma's famous cabbage bean soup, a Reaping Day tradition in her family going back to long before she was even born. It's that little bit of warm goodness that makes a day like today a bit more bearable.

"Time to get a hustle in your step, Noeah," Ma's voice is flatter than usual, obviously stressed over the day already. "Satchel's ready to go."

Satchel. This was his first year in the bowl, taking tessera for just himself, despite his pleas to do more since moving into our home a few weeks ago. There was no need for him to put his name in any extra when my own was already in there ten times.

"Alright Ma," I drag myself out of bed begrudgingly, knowing that the Capitol waits for no one. "I'll be ready soon."

A lump formed in my throat when I noticed the black slacks and white shirt laid out for me on the chair in the corner. Gone was the comically too small suit from the past two Reapings, replaced with little fanfare by the same clothes my father wore at my age. There was no time for to bathe the soot and grime of District Eight and even less time to mourn, so I slid on my last clean pair of underwear and did the same with his...my pants. It was clear just how much we looked alike when I stepped outside my bedroom door and Ma burst into tears.

"He would be so proud of all you do," she managed to spit out, before pulling me in for a hug. With a quick swoop, she pulled in Satchel, who looked a bit out of place for a moment. "And he would have been proud to call you his son." This caused the little guy to beam with pride.

She lets us go so I can hastily eat my cooled oatmeal and turns her attention to Satchel, straightening out my old brown slacks and matching shirt. She then gives Satchel a second helping, knowing there will be little left over for herself to have after we head down to the town square. I can't help but smile, knowing how much she has changed in these past few years. Gone is the woman that broke after Pa's death, bedridden to the point of starvation and replaced with her old, selfless self. You wouldn't even know they were the same person; she barely left her room to eat, let alone go to the bathroom, and now she had returned to her job teaching the history of Panem to children that can actually _afford_ to go to school. The same kids that never have to worry about their names being called or how they are going to make rent.

I didn't even notice my leg bouncing until my bowl started to make its way across the table. Ma placed her hand on my shoulder, knowing that one of my nervous fits was about to come on. "Breathe, Noe. Close your eyes."

I do as she says and suddenly I am in a field filled with flowers of all colors. I can almost smell them, despite never seeing on outside of the pictures and few times they were featured in the games. The air is clear; no longer heavy with the smog of the textile plants that surround my neighborhood and I can breathe deeply without gagging. Before I know it, the ticks have stopped.

"Thanks Ma," I bury my head into her stomach. "What would I do without you?"

She laughs uproariously. "Kid, you've done pretty well for yourself."

"And you have me," Satchel finally pips up, his toothless grin infectious as always. "And the guys."

"Speaking of which," she spins on her heel and grabs a small, brown box from the top of her baking shelf. "This is for the guys. Crackers made from Satchel's first bag of tessera grain!"

He beams with pride once again. "Really?"

She kisses the top of his head. "And there's a few left over, but that's for after dinner tonight."

With his mop of light curls and wide grin, he looked as though he fit right in this family, even favoring Ma more than I did. It made it easier to hide him, as Peacekeepers seem to have a pension for taking orphaned and abandoned kids from the streets and selling them to the factories, replacing the children than end up injured or killed while working the looks. This was especially true of the Peacekeepers we've had run-ins with before. It didn't take much convincing on my part, as Ma couldn't say no to a child in need. Of course, his small frame made him very useful to someone like me.

"Give the boys my love," she kissed us both on the check. "And of course, you boys have mine. Come right back afterwards, Peacekeepers will be looking to crack skulls today, so don't do anything stupid."

"Love ya, Ma!" we both chimed in unison and I grabbed my father's leather jacket and swing it onto my shoulder before we jet out the door and into the uneven, cobblestone street.

Before long, we're out amongst the crowds in the aptly named Smog District and surrounded by several other boys of various ages, but all of us within Reaping ages. The tallest of the group, the ginger-haired Tweed snatched the box out of my hands and stuffed a handful of crackers into his mouth before attempting a _thank you_ that send spit and crumbs dribbling down his chin. This sent all of us into fits of hysterical laughter, which was just what we needed on a day like today.

"Are we still hitting The Clear after the Reaping today?"

The rest of us stop laughing and turn in horror to face Jute, who hadn't even bothered to look around and see if anyone was paying attention to us. The look on his face said it all; he had no clue that he did anything wrong. It wasn't until his younger brother Silas slapped him upside the head.

"Keep it down, wontcha?" Silas shook his head in disbelief. "You want to get the Peacekeepers on our tail?"

He mutters an apology and walks ahead, his head down in defeat. I can't blame the others for being upset, each of us have had our run-ins with the law here and it is never a fun time. They seem to have a penchant for going after me in particular, as they still remember my father and the legacy he left me, and they'll turn on anyone even associated with me. Of course, I've gotten lucky thus far.

But like my father before me, luck can't be on my side for long.

We passed by a group of older girls, obviously in their last year or two of eligibility, and they turn up their noses at us, whispering and giggling as we pass our crackers between us and crack stupid jokes. Tweed, being the oldest and most experienced with the ladies, offers them a cracker, which they scoff at, which doesn't sit well with him. He flips them off, offending them, and causing us to roar with laughter once again.

"You've got a way with the ladies," Silas ribbed, elbowing him in the side. "No wonder you get so much play-"

He stops mid-sentence, his eyes growing wider and wider as the color drained from his face. Not thirty feet down the road and making a beeline right for us was none other than Peacekeeper Jessup, right hand man to the Head Peacekeeper and the one that I watched whip my father to death just three years ago.

"SHIT!"

"Scatter and meet by the twelve year old section!" Tweed hissed, taking off down a nearby side street with Silas not far behind. The four remaining boys bolted in different directions, using the hustling crowds as a quick cover. Satchel froze like a deer in headlights, his face going paler and paler as our enemy grew closer.

"Get a move on!" I grab the younger boy by his upper arm and drag him, back tracking a few buildings down before hurrying into the ally that runs along Clothing Factory X-43. We bank to the left, almost slipping on the wet trash splattered, before coming face to face with our worst enemy. A large fence, topped with barbed wire stood before us, mocking me. "SHIT! SHIT! SHIT!"

Without thinking, I strip off my jacket and toss it, almost yelping out in glee when it lands on top. Satchel has little chance to gather his thoughts as I hoist him up into the air, just as Jessup makes the turn. We get lucky, as he slips fully on the garbage, and I would have laughed, if I wasn't putting all my effort into getting the kid I've come to love like a little brother to safety.

"You've gotta climb over, Satch!" I scream at him. "Climb!"

"I can't!" his voice is as panicked as I am. "I won't leave you!"

"Tell Ma I love her!"

With one final push, he's up and over, sliding down and taking my jacket with him, now sporting a few holes. I try in vain to follow him, getting almost halfway up before heavy hands drag me back down and slam my face into the unflinching metal. I cry out in pain, watching as Satchel stands not five feet away, tears streaming down his face. I mouth at him to go, but once again, he's frozen in place.

"NOEAH!"

"GO!"

Finally, he makes a run for it, disappearing into the unsuspecting crowd, leaving me to face off against the man that took everything away from me.

"Don't worry about the little guy," the heat of his revolting breath warms my neck and ear. "I'm sure we'll catch him stalking around with those buddies of yours."

I struggle against his grip, but it's all for nothing. "You've been a bad boy, Argyle. Vandalism on walls outside of Warehouse 3, a fire set out back of the Justice Center, a break-in at Mayor Rallis's house-"

"That wasn't-"

"Like they'll believe you," his laughter echoes around me. "I know you only steal scraps for those kids to get by, you're not your father."

"You murdered him for no good reason!" I spit each word at him as if it will do some damage. "His _friends_ gave him up...he barely knew what they had planned."

He spins me around like I weighed next to nothing. "Is that what your mother told you to coddle you into thinking your daddy was a good guy...or was he lying to her too?"

In a blind fury, I take a swing at him, only to have him slam me against the fence and tower over me. "Calm down there, killer. I know you're not as naive as your mother, you had to of seen the signs. I might not have been Head Peacekeeper during the Rebellion, but I was here. What you're doing with these kids is child's play compared to what he did back then. Conspiracy against the Capitol...arson...murder! It was only a matter of time before we got him, even if we hadn't beaten it out of his good friend Linus. Of course, the past loves to repeat itself...however, Jute wasn't so hard to break."

That sneaky bastard.

The clock at the Justice Center signals that it's nine o'clock and Peacekeeper Jessup pulls me back onto my feet. "Wouldn't want to be late for The Reaping, now would we?"

Crowds part around us as he drags me through the streets; that shit-eating grin never far from his face. Some look on, their eyes barely able to meet my own and the ones that do are drowning in pity. They know me, or at least have heard of me, and they think of my Pa. Hell, all I can think of is my Pa and if all Jessup said was true. He told me of my grandparents' efforts in the War; how Grandmother bawled when Cecelia was Reaped back in a year after the Victor paid for my Aunt's funeral, that Grandfather went down with the Peacekeeper Uniform Factory they torched to the ground. Am I too naive to believe that those things couldn't have fueled him to become just as bad as the ones oppressing us? I may be willing to do anything for my friends, as well as my Ma, but kill? Pa told me murder was wrong…

...could he know that from personal experience?

Jessup shoves me forward once again, nearly sending me clear over the guns used to take our blood and his fellow Peacekeepers get a good laugh out of it. "Noaeh Argyle, age thirteen."

"Fourteen," I spit, sending blood across the table. "At least get something right about me."

"What a comedian," he deadpans, before smacking me in the back of the head and sending me into the table again. "Get his info so we don't miss the show."

I barely feel the pinch to my finger before he drags me off to the fourteen year old's pen, just in time for the Mayor to come on stage, followed slowly behind by his youngest child. His older two children are one pen ahead and three behind me, probably bored out of their mind because they know there's little chance that their name would get picked. Of course, he doesn't leave my side, leading to those around me to whisper about what I could have possibly done.

"How many slips are yours in that bowl?" he asks, his voice a little lighter in tone now that there are citizens around. Can't look bad in front of them, can we?

"Does it really matter?" I sigh, wincing as he grips my shoulder a bit harder. "Ten."

"Ten? Are you sure about that?"

His grin says it all...he rigged the bowl and my life is as good as over.

"Ladies first, as always," I didn't even realize our escort, Saccharum Louvange had taken the stage. With just the most basic of Capitol upgrades, he almost looks as if he could pass as one of us. Of course, he isn't on the verge of collapsing due to malnutrition and his aqua and pink striped hair makes him stand out amongst the crowd. "Could I get Miss Fuchsia O'Donnell on stage, please?"

The name doesn't ring a bell, but I quickly find her in the pens behind me, as some of Jessup's _friends_ grip the poor girl up and drag her towards the stage and plop her down. A high-pitched screech echoes from the spot she was just at, obviously a friend or family member of hers. She doesn't look particularly special or strong, just an average girl now dealing with fighting for her life as Saccharum shoves his microphone into her face.

"So, Fuchsia, what do you have to say about being called up here this fine day?"

"Uh, if anyone needs a job, Clothing Factory X-43 just has a spot open up!" her nervous giggle causes the crowd to collectively sigh and I can't help but feel sorry for her.

She's a dead girl walking.

"Lovely!" he beamed, totally oblivious to how grim her situation was. "Now, let's see who'll join you!"

Unsurprisingly, my name is called.

"Congratulations, kid!" Jessup mockingly cheers, pushing me into the center aisle, leaving me to walk up alone. "Don't worry, I'll be sure to take care of your mama while you're gone!"

My vision goes black and I go on the attach, swinging wildly as I let out a guttural scream. The next thing I know I'm being dropped next to Fuchsia, who looks down at me in horror and my eye is throbbing. Saccharum doesn't bother to shove the microphone in my faces; rather he tries to end our Reaping early as to save our District the embarrassment of having two tributes that needed to be drug onto the stage by Peacekeepers.

They lead us both inside, shoving us each through a door and slam it behind us. I push my ear up against the door, hoping to hear something...anything that can get me out of this. Nothing. I try the windows, flip over the small table in the corner, and pull all the books off of the bookshelf next to it. Nothing, nothing, and more nothing! I pound my fists on the couch, letting the tears I've kept held inside since I saw Jessup heading towards us flow down my cheeks. I'm a dead guy walking and my mom and friends are probably next.

And my father lied to us.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, I'm just so stupid. I repeated his biggest mistakes by trusting someone I shouldn't have and it's going to lead to my mother losing it all. And what's worse is I brought poor, innocent Satchel into it as well! What the hell is wrong with me? I'm a damn fool.

"Noeah..." his voice is small and weak, his nose is busted wide open. "I got your jacket."

I pull him in for the biggest hug of his life. The closest I'll ever have to a brother, seeing him so broken and battered brings the rage that was beaten back down into me by the Peacekeepers bubbling back up to the surface. His tears soak my shirt and he starts to mumble.

"The guys...thought I ratted...it...wasn't...me…." he stammers out, before he begins to cry.

"No, it was Jute," I deadpan, pulling away and looking him in the eyes. "Tell Silas I know for a fact it was him and he'll know what to do with that rat fink!"

He nodded in response, before continuing. "I told Ma what happened, she stormed Mayor's house to yell at him for it. I don't know if she'll be here."

"That's ok, I don't want her anywhere near here," my voice goes cold. "You need to listen to me Satch, the Peacekeepers know it was swiping all that food, but they're trying to blame us for other stuff going on around Eight. Jessup saw you with me, so it's not safe for you. Shave your head, lay low, and tell Ma to leave the house behind. Protect her if you can, ok? I'm not going to be around to help you both out anymore."

"You can do this!" he exclaims, his voice cracks in excitement. "You can win and then they can't touch you! Victors are untouchable!"

"Sure, kid," I lie, pulling him in for one last hug. "Maybe."

The door swings open and once again, he drug away from me. "Tell Ma I love her!"

"Your jacket!"

He tosses it at me just as the door is slammed shut, leaving me all alone. I want to scream, I want to cry, I want to leap to my death out the window, even if it's not high enough to do much damage, but at the end of the day, I'm just a kid. Just another dead kid, waiting for it to be my turn.


End file.
